


The Deadlights

by ElderBerryBeret



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Bisexual Eddie, Canon-Typical Horror, Eddie is alive (he never died), Gay Richie, Hallucinations, Internalised Homophobia, M/M, Nightmares, Richie is suffering (again)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:35:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23595439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElderBerryBeret/pseuds/ElderBerryBeret
Summary: There’s something wrong with Richie after he comes out of the Deadlights.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 34
Kudos: 180





	1. Derry (Part 2)

Richie remembered screaming, “Yipee kai yay motherf....” before he was hauled up into the Deadlights. After that, there was bright light. The sensation of flying outside the physical world. Confusion, terror, a red flash of chaos. And then, nothing. 

His next memory was the agony in his back, shoulders and the back of his head as he crashed feet first back down onto the stone floor of the sewer. He lay still for a few seconds, doing an inventory of himself and coming to the conclusion that he was a) alive and b) bleeding but not seriously injured. His glasses had been knocked off his face, and his ears were ringing. 

Eddie was leaning over him, triumphant. Richie couldn’t hear what Eddie was saying. He blinked up at him, trying to clear his head. It seemed like Eddie was telling him something important.

Then there was a splash of liquid, covering him. Richie was disoriented and still not fully aware - what was that? He saw Eddie jerked a few feet off the ground. He saw the blood flying from his mouth. He saw the claw piercing Eddie’s chest. Oh Jesus, he was covered in Eddie’s blood. 

Time sped back up. He heard Bev screaming. 

Eddie was tossed across the cavern, like a chew toy being shaken by a terrier, and flew out of sight. 

Someone pulled him to his feet and handed him his glasses. The world came back in focus. He hauled himself over, using the slimy walls of the sewer for support, ignoring the pain in his back and the shrieking monster behind him. 

Eddie was motionless, covered in blood, slumped against the wall of the tunnel. 

There was an instant when Richie was sure Eddie was dead. It looked to Richie like Eddie’s chest was unmoving. Eddie wasn’t breathing, his eyes were glassy, empty, and there was a gaping hole in his chest. There was so much blood. Richie’s panic spiked. Eddie couldn’t be dead. Not when Richie had just found him again. He fell to his knees beside him.

Then Eddie gripped his wrist, jolting Richie out of his slack-jawed shock. Their eyes locked for a moment, and Richie could see his own panic reflected in Eddie’s expression. Eddie tried to talk, but coughed up a trickle of blood instead. Richie pressed his jacket to Eddie’s wound, careful not to jolt the broken claw that was still inside him, and trying to stop the bleeding. “You’re going to be fine, Eddie, we’ll get you out of here, get you to a hospital.” Richie was babbling, on the edge of hysteria. “It’s going to be OK.”

Eddie held onto Richie’s arm while he rasped out about how he’d almost killed the leper at Mr Keene’s pharmacy. Mike had an epiphany, and the Losers regrouped and ran back out.

“Richie!” It was Bill screaming for him. 

“Eddie’s hurt! I can’t leave him” Richie yelled back. He could hear the sounds of the fight going on in the cavern behind him. 

“Richie! We need you out here.” 

“Go.” Eddie whispered.

Richie stood stiffly and staggered back into the fray. Everything that happened after that was a blur. 

He understood, intellectually, that the five of them had reduced It, used its limitations against It, and ultimately killed It. Trouble was, it felt like something he’d watched on TV, not something he’d participated in. He felt disconnected, at arms-length, shocked. When it was over, he rushed back to Eddie, who was unconscious but still breathing. Richie kept the careful pressure on his wound while he was carried back to the surface. 

***

At the hospital, Richie was assessed, x-rayed, diagnosed with bad bruising, given a prescription for Vicodin and cleared to leave. 

Eddie was in surgery, and the Losers were in the waiting room, drawing suspicious looks from everyone in the vicinity. They were sewer grimy and they stank. Richie was covered in Eddie’s blood, and Bev was drenched in God knows what. 

“We need to get cleaned up.” Bev said. They agreed and split up. Bill, Bev and Ben went back to the Derry Town House, leaving Mike and Richie in the waiting room.

Richie sat stiffly and in pain on the plastic chairs, holding his head in his hands. 

“We’re going to have to do something about the library.” Mike said, dully.

Richie nodded. There was a whole mess in there. Not to mention the body of the man he’d murdered. Jesus Christ.

He couldn’t think about that now. He couldn’t think about anything while Eddie was in surgery.

***  
A few hours later, the Losers had regrouped in the hospital waiting room, and had talked in low whispers about what they should do about the body in the library. Richie thought, in a sort of checked-out haze, that it sounded like a game of real-life Clue. Henry Bowers murdered in the library with an historic artefact.

He let the others deal with the library. Not his proudest moment. 

In his defence, he was still injured. Forty year old men were not built to fall several metres onto stone floors. And he refused to leave the hospital until he Eddie was out of surgery. Bill had bought him fresh clothes, and Richie changed in the bathroom into sweatpants and a t-shirt that probably belonged to Mike. He balled up his blood stained shirt and jeans and put them in a plastic bag. They would need to be incinerated, but he’d see to that later. He washed his face, using paper towels to scrub the blood off. He still looked terrible, and he smelled, but he looked less like a walking crime scene.

Richie knew nothing about traumatic injuries, but Eddie had lost a lot of blood, and Richie knew that was bad. Eddie had been barely breathing by the time they’d got him to the hospital. His lips had been bluish and his breath had rattled in a way that reminded Richie horribly of the wheeze of Eddie’s childhood asthma. 

Richie’s back was seizing up. Hospital waiting room chairs were not built for people of his size. He took a Vicodin and fell asleep while waiting for news. 

He dreamed that Eddie died. He died in the cavern, and Richie had to be pulled away, screaming, as the ceiling collapsed. He died in Mike’s car on the way to the hospital, as Richie cried while trying to apply enough pressure to stop the bleeding. He died on the operating table, his heart giving out while Richie sat, ignorant, in the waiting room. He died in intensive care, of organ failure caused by sepsis and Richie had to tell his wife that Eddie hadn’t made it. 

Bill jerked him awake, and Richie flailed in his seat. “Are you OK?” Bill said. “You look like you were having a nightmare.”

“What could possibly cause me to have nightmares?” Richie said. His pulse was racing, and he felt sick, still feeling the residual grief of his dreams. He stretched in the chair, feeling his back crackle, trying to shake off the image of Eddie, blank eyed and not breathing.

Bill ignored the sarcasm. “I’m going to find out if there’s any news.”

“There won’t be.” Richie said. “I told them I’m Eddie’s brother. If there’s news, I’ll hear it first.”

They sat in silence for a while.

***

The news, when it finally came was both hopeful and terrifying.

Eddie had survived the surgery. This was a significant accomplishment, according to the surgeon who spoke to them in the waiting room, given the amount of blood Eddie had lost. His life had been saved by the remnants of the broken claw, which had slowed the blood loss.

Eddie was ventilated in intensive care, having gone into hypoxic respiratory failure. He’d needed a blood transfusion, and was being treated with antibiotics. The main danger now was further respiratory failure and the risk of infection. The next 48 hours would be critical.

It was Mike who articulated what Richie had been thinking, with grave misgivings, for several hours now. “We need to call his wife.” he said.

“I’ll d-d-do it.” Bill said.

***

The next day, Myra arrived like a whirlwind and the Losers retreated to the Derry Town House, dragging Richie with them. 

In his room, Richie staggered into the shower to finally wash the stink of the sewers off of his skin, and then collapsed onto his bed in a pair of clean boxers. He’d had little sleep for the last seventy two hours and was starting to lose his grip, reality was starting to get hazy. 

He fell asleep quickly.

Richie was back in the Deadlights. He fell. Eddie was above him, as he lay on his back, saying something that Richie could not understand. His glasses were still on his face, but his vision was out of focus and his ears were ringing. Then Eddie was impaled. Blood splattered. Eddie was thrown back and forth and then out of Richie’s sight. Bev screamed. Richie whispered Eddie’s name, hauled himself upright and ran to Eddie. Eddie was crumpled, blood stained, and small-looking. Richie balled up his leather jacket and pressed it to the hole in Eddie’s chest. 

Richie said “He’s hurt real bad. We’ve got to get him out of here.” 

And Bev said, “How are we supposed to do that, Richie?”.

Eddie told them about the leper at Mr Keene’s pharmacy. Mike had an epiphany. The five of them fought It. Bill tore It’s heart from It’s chest.

Eddie was dead when they made it back to him. Richie held onto him until Ben and Bill dragged him away, while he screamed that they could still help him, they had to help him. The tunnel collapsed, and Eddie was buried there, under Neibolt Street, forever.

Richie woke with a start. His heart was pounding, he was drenched in sweat, and his throat was raw, like he’d been screaming. It’s not real, he told himself. Just a nightmare. Eddie’s alive. But the sense of dread and horror persisted, even as the details of the dream faded, so Richie called the hospital and pretended to be Eddie’s brother to charm an update out of the nurses’ station. Eddie was still in intensive care, but he was alive.

***

Eddie was discharged from the ICU four days later and was finally allowed to have visitors.

“God Richie, you look like shit.” Eddie said, as Richie shuffled into his room and sat down. 

“You don’t look like you’re going to the Met Ball either.” Richie replied, taking stock of Eddie’s iv antibiotics, the morphine bolus, the chest drain and Eddie’s pallor. “How are you?”

“Been better.” Eddie said, gesturing to the dressings covering his wound. “But the drugs are good.”

Richie hadn’t slept more than three hours at a stretch since Neibolt Street, and he was starting to fray at the edges. The nightmares were constant, exhausting, and Richie was starting to dread sleeping. He knew he looked rough, with purple shadows under his eyes, a permanent five o’clock shadow, and a tremor in his hands. 

“Do you remember what happened down there?” Richie asked. 

“Not really.” He said. “I remember some of it. The Pomeranian? A pair of disembodied legs? A lot of screaming. Mostly you screaming, actually.”

“You saved my life.” Richie said. 

“Did I?” 

“I was in the Deadlights. Do you remember?” Eddie shook his head. 

There was a lot Richie wanted to say to Eddie. He wanted to tell Eddie how brave he’d been down there, and he wanted to keep telling him until Eddie believed it for himself. He wanted to explain how he felt responsible for Eddie’s injuries, how Eddie wouldn’t be in the hospital if not for his kamikaze run to set Richie free from the Deadlights, and what had he been thinking putting himself at risk like that? He wanted to describe how Eddie died every time Richie closed his eyes and the grief of losing him - even in a dream - was forcing a bunch of feelings to the surface that Richie had first buried when he was fifteen.

“I wanted to make sure you knew.” Richie said instead. “You saved my life down there.”

“I’m sure I’ll live to regret it.” Eddie said.

***

Richie met Bill at the diner in town. Richie headed straight for the jukebox. It was digital, which both offended him and made him feel ancient, but he fed in some quarters anyway and lined up some tunes, starting with Blondie, followed by the Cure. Richie was feeling an eighties vibe. Derry was messing with his head.

“You look like shit.” Bill said.

“So I’ve heard.” Richie replied, folding himself into the booth.

The waitress looked uncertainly between Richie and Bill as if she recognised one, or both, of them. Richie adopted one of his milder voices, a charming character that had her giggling behind her hand. Bill rolled his eyes as she walked away.

“You haven’t changed, Richie.”

“I guess not.” Richie said. 

But he had changed, hadn’t he? Coming back to Derry had changed him. It was almost as if there were two Richies. One told jokes about being sent to masturbater’s anonymous by his furious girlfriend, and had only vague memories of growing up. This Richie was crude, mildly sexist, aggressively heterosexual. 

The other Richie remembered everything, with more memories coming to him every day. The new Richie remembered being called a dirty little fag by Henry Bowers in the arcade when he was eleven. He remembered Eddie climbing into the clubhouse hammock with him, toeing his glasses off his face, he remembered finding excuses to touch Eddie, how he always sought Eddie out. He remembered the feelings that at first confused, then terrified him, as a teenager. 

Turns out, Richie Tozier wasn’t as straight as he’d thought.

He guessed this explained why he had a history, usually when drunk, of dalliances with men in restrooms.

Bill and Richie talked for a few minutes about their plans for after Derry. Richie had his Reno dates coming up in a couple months and Bill needed to get back to England. Audra had started making threats, and the producer was on the verge of suing him, unless he got back to re-write the ending.

“Your endings suck, Bill. You should do everyone a favour and tell them to hire another writer.”

Bill ignored him. 

The waitress brought their orders. Richie slurped his milkshake, and picked at his fries. 

“What’s g-g-going on with you?” Bill said in the end.

“Not sleeping.” Richie said.

“Nightmares?” Bill said. “Me too. I’m taking far too much Ambien.”

Richie leaned forward, lowering his voice, “I keep dreaming that Eddie’s dead. Like, really dead.”

“Your subconscious isn’t very subtle.” Bill said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Richie said, his irritation rising. Lack of sleep had frayed his temper.

Bill looked at him incredulously for a second or two and then shrugged, declining to elaborate.

“Maybe I’m traumatised by having to come back to this shit hole and fight that fucking clown again.” Richie hissed. 

“Yeah - that’s probably it.” Bill said. 

Bill changed the subject, telling Richie about his time on set in England. Richie was left wondering whether Bill had seen something he was only just coming to terms with himself. 

***

The point was moot, however, as Richie had more pressing things to worry about.

He still wasn’t sleeping and the nightmares were a vivid and disturbing feature every night. He took some Ambien, supplied by Bill, but Richie had a history with prescription drugs (and non prescription drugs, if he was being honest), and he knew he’d have to be very careful not to slip up. Meaning, of course, that he shouldn’t even be dabbling with habit forming substances. Nevertheless, he took a couple of pills. Each time he drifted to sleep easily, but still woke up three hours later, heart pounding, sheets tangled around his hips, as he struggled out of his latest nightmare. 

He’d been speaking to his manager, Steve, on the phone regularly and Steve was starting to lose patience with his refusal to agree to go back to LA. Richie hadn’t told Steve this, but he wanted to make sure Eddie was discharged from the hospital first. Richie wasn’t sure he’d be any use to Steve back in LA unless he was able to get himself under control. If Steve saw him right now, or if he found out about the Ambien, he’d throw an absolute fit and send Richie straight back to the psychiatrist. 

Richie did indeed look like shit. After ten days of minimal sleeping, his eyes had a sunken, hollow look. There were purple shadows under them and his stubble had morphed into a scruffy beard that was more hobo than hot dad. He’d lost his ability to focus, to the extent that he couldn’t get through a thirty minute sitcom without losing track of the plot. He was jumpy, as his anxiety ratcheted from its baseline level to a stratospheric height, and he felt constantly on the verge of a panic attack. 

Then he started to hallucinate. 

He was in the hospital when it happened. He was on his way to visit Eddie, during the short window when Myra returned to her hotel for a shower and something to eat. Richie had nothing against Myra personally, but at the same time he was awash with burning and unreasonable jealousy and incredulity that Eddie had married someone so similar to his mother. As a result, he didn’t want to spend any time making small talk with her and had been avoiding her.

He was fully in touch with reality. He could hear the soles of his sneakers squeaking slightly on the polished floors. He could hear the sound of hushed voices, call bells ringing in the nurses’ station and the faint sound of a tannoy in another department. Eddie was still in the surgical high-dependency unit being monitored for signs of infection. He could smell the pine disinfectant. He was thinking about avoiding Myra, and he was almost at Eddie’s room, when a doctor approached him. Richie hadn’t seen her before. She was young - he knew he was definitely getting old, as the doctors had started looking like fresh-faced college graduates - and pretty. She was wearing blue scrubs and had her blonde hair in a messy bun.

“Richard Tozier?” She said, continuing before Richie could respond, “Mrs Kaspbrak asked me to speak to you. Do you have a minute?” 

Richie said, “Sure.” And followed her into a room nearby. He could still smell the pine scent, could hear someone laughing down the hall, and could feel his pulse begin to spike, and sweat start pooling on his hairline.

There was a low sofa and a small desk and office chair. She sat at the desk, and Richie sank down onto the sofa, clasping his hands between his knees. 

“I’m very sorry to tell you this.” She said, and Richie’s rat-in-a-trap anxiety brain kicked in. If he could stop her from saying whatever she was about to say, then life would not be starkly divided into the time before this conversation, and the time after it. If he could walk out of this room without hearing what she was about to say, if he could stop himself hearing it, maybe it would stop being true.

But Richie was struck dumb, and could only sit there on the uncomfortable maroon sofa while she said, gently. “Mr Kaspbrak suffered a massive cardiac arrest earlier this morning. I’m afraid he didn’t make it. He died a few hours ago. I’m very sorry.”

Time stopped for Richie. The doctor continued to speak for a few minutes, but Richie didn’t take any of it in. His pulse was racing and his breath was coming in rapid gasps. He gripped his hands together, to stop them shaking, and tried to remember his breathing exercises. 

“Is there someone I could call for you?” She said. 

Eddie’s heart had stopped beating. Breathe in to the count of four. 

“You can stay here for a while.” She said.

Eddie had died. Breathe out to the count of seven. 

Use your diaphragm, Richie. Lower your shoulders, Richie. Breathe Richie, for fuck’s sake.

“I’m going to throw up.” Richie said getting up and bolting out of the room. 

***

Eddie would have a tantrum if he could see him, sitting on the tiled floor of a hospital bathroom, with his knees pressed into his chest, his arms clasped around them and his head bowed. His glasses were on the floor beside him. His throat was raw, and his stomach was still churning. Richie felt like his own heart was going to pound itself out of his chest. It felt profoundly unfair; that Richie’s heart could beat so fast and so strong, while Eddie’s was still, forever.

He couldn’t start to process this. How could Eddie come through everything that had happened when they were kids and since they’d come back to the almighty shit-hole that was Derry, and then die, when he should have been recovering? How could that fucking clown win, after everything? Hadn’t they given up enough to balance the universal scales and get a break?

He could hear Eddie’s voice berating him about the number and variety of germs he was exposing himself to, but he’d never hear Eddie’s voice again because Eddie had died.

Richie’s started to sob, great heaving gasps that shook his whole body. He hated the way his voice echoed around the tiles. In all of his forty years on the earth, Richie had never felt heartbreak like this. He had been prepared to keep his secret, as long as Eddie was alright. 

Richie wiped his face on his sleeve, picked up his glasses and put them on. He needed to move. He knew a panic attack couldn’t kill him, but they were fucking unpleasant and he needed to get off this fucking floor. 

Richie hauled himself upright on legs that felt wobbly, coltish, and made it back into the stall before he threw up again. 

He needed a cigarette.

***

Richie’s hand shook so much that it took seven attempts to get his lighter to connect with his cigarette. He inhaled, feeling the smoke burn his throat and lungs. What was he supposed to do now? He actually had no idea.

Bill found him when he was on his third cigarette. “Christ Richie, what happened?” Bill said.

Richie looked at him blankly. He touched him lightly on the arm, and Richie almost came undone at that simple act of kindness, of familiarity. “Eddie’s dead.” He said, choking on the words, fresh tears pooling in the corners of his eyes.

Bill frowned at him, taking him in slowly. “What are you talking about?” He said. “Eddie’s not dead, Richie.”

“No.” Richie said. “He had a heart attack. One of the doctors told me. He’s dead.”

Bill plucked the cigarette out of Richie’s hand, and pitched it. “He’s not dead.” He said, taking Richie’s arm and pulling him gently back towards the hospital entrance. “Come with me.”

Richie thought briefly about resisting, certain that he couldn’t cope with any further evidence that Eddie had died. In the end, he thought Bill deserved to know the truth, and allowed himself to be guided back inside, into the elevator, back up to the High Dependency Unit. The corridor smelled of pine. Richie’s sneakers squeaked on the tiled floor. Nurses hurried to and fro. Call bells dinged and a phone was ringing somewhere. Bill still held his arm. It was grounding him. 

They paused outside the door of Eddie’s room. Richie was sure the bed would be empty and stripped, that Eddie would be gone. He tried to steel himself.

Bill pushed the door open.

Eddie was in the bed. Alive. Still hooked up to his iv antibiotics, and with an oxygen monitor on his finger, looking small and pale. Richie sagged, and he grasped the doorframe in order to stay upright.

Myra looked up from her book, and a frown creased her brow. “He’s sleeping.” She said. “He can’t have visitors right now.”

“Hi Myra! We’ll come back later.” Bill said with a smile, hauling Richie away with him.

He manhandled him to the Starbucks in the lobby, pushed him into a chair and came back a few minutes later with two black coffees. He set one in front of Richie and sat down opposite him.

“What’s going on?”

Richie told him. 

To her credit, Bill didn’t act like Richie was crazy. “We’ve got to find out what’s happening.” He said, marching Richie back up to the ward. 

Bill marched straight to the nurses station and had a quiet conversation with the women working there. Richie watched from down the hall as they both looked at him, briefly, before turning back to each other.

It turned out that there was no blonde doctor on duty that day, and the office with the maroon sofa that Richie had sworn he’d sat on was a supply closet. Bill persuaded a nurse to unlock the door, and Richie stared incredulously at the towels and bed linen on the shelves lining the walls, turning in a slow circle.

Had he imagined the whole thing?

Richie was literally losing his mind.

If it meant Eddie was alive, he’d take insanity.

He guessed this clarified exactly what Eddie had, and still, meant to him.

***

Bill and Richie sat at a table at the Derry Town House, drinking bottled beer they’d liberated from behind the unmanned bar.

“We should talk about this.” Bill said.

“We probably should.” Richie said, taking a long drink.

They sat in silence.

“There’s so much here, that I don’t know where to start.” Bill said, eventually. He fixed Richie with a look that transported him back nearly thirty years. It was the face of the boy who rode a too-big bike, Silver, straight through the intersection on Main Street, weaving haphazardly through the traffic. Fearless. “So, you and Eddie?” He said, smirking behind his beer bottle.

“That’s what you lead with, Bill?” Richie said. “Not the hallucination, or vision, or whatever? Or the crippling insomnia or the nightmares?”

“Don’t worry. We’ll get to that.” He said. 

Richie didn’t think this was fair, given his fragile emotional state. But to be fair, Bill hadn’t seen him breaking down underneath a paper towel dispenser in a public bathroom or throwing up in the stalls.

“First,” Bill said. “Who else knows?”

“No-one.” Richie said. “C’mon Bill. We shouldn’t be talking about this. Eddie’s married.”

“I know.” Bill said, sadly. “But I’m not letting you off the hook. We will talk about this later.” He finished his beer and went behind the bar to get another. Richie shook his head when he tilted a bottle towards him. “Now, since you’re being so unexpectedly mature, what do you think happened to you earlier? Could you have fallen asleep in the hospital?”

“No. I was awake the whole time.” Richie said. “It wasn’t a nightmare. I can’t explain it, but it felt too real, three dimensional. It was too vivid.”

“But it wasn’t real, Richie.” Bill said. Richie shrugged. He was still somewhat unconvinced that he wasn’t the victim of an elaborate, and incredibly unkind prank, although he had no idea who in Derry would want to torture him like that, now that the clown was gone.

“How much sleep have you been getting?” Bill said.

“I sleep about two or three hours a night.” Richie said.

“And you dream every night?” Bill said. 

“Sometimes two or three times.” Richie said. “There’s a pun in there somewhere, but I don’t have the energy.”

“Things must be bad.” Bill said. “So you’re severely sleep-deprived. Richie - do you know that sleep deprivation can cause hallucinations?” 

Richie nodded. “Do you think that’s what it was? A hallucination?” 

Bill shrugged. “Could be.” He said.

Richie was prepared to accept the possibility that it could have been a hallucination triggered by sleep deprivation and his ongoing anxiety about Eddie’s health, and he was prepared to consider that his nightmares could be stress-related. It just didn’t sit right, but he had no other explanation.

“That’s probably it.” Richie said. “Looks like I’ll be heading back into therapy when I get back to LA.”

Bev and Ben clattered noisily into the bar, holding on to each other. They stopped giggling when they saw Bill and Richie. Richie gripped Bill’s wrist and whispered, “Don’t tell them, Bill please.” Bill nodded. 

Ben clapped Bill on the shoulder on the cheek and sat down next to him. Bev sat with Richie, throwing an arm across his shoulder. Richie made an off-colour joke. Bev liberated a couple more beers. 

The talk turned to the group’s plans. Bev and Ben were planning a road trip, with no particular destination in mind, and Bill had booked a flight back to London - he was leaving in two days.

Richie was reminded, again, that he was needed back in LA. Maybe that was for the best.

***

Richie called Steve and told him he would be back in a week. 

Eddie was discharged on the fifteenth day post surgery. He was stable, but was facing a long recovery to get to full health. Myra wasted no time making arrangements to get back to New York, to Eddie’s regular physician, who would treat him properly, ‘not like these small town quacks’, she said. Bev, Ben, Mike and Richie gathered in the lobby of the Town House to say their goodbyes. Bill had already left.

Eddie looked small, diminished by his injuries and also small in contrast to his wife, who hovered around him, fussing. It made Richie’s heart ache to witness it, and triggered memories of Sonia Kaspbrak forcing Eddie to kiss her on the cheek before leaving with them, chiding him for wanting to play outside, reminding him, constantly, not to forget his inhaler. 

What had Eddie been thinking when he married her? 

And wasn’t that a question that could be asked of all of them? 

What had Bev been thinking when she married a man like her father? What was Bill thinking, re-living George’s murder and the summer of 1989 in one way or another, book after book? What was Ben thinking, when he recreated the loneliness that had characterised his early childhood? And what was Richie thinking, staying in the closet all these years, as if the spectre being called a little fag every day in middle school had stayed with him, even though he’d literally forgotten it for twenty seven years.

Eddie might have looked frail and tired, but his mouth was working fine. He called Richie out for drinking a beer at lunchtime, and then told Richie to fuck off, when he joked that Myra could use a beer, or a Valium, to calm down.

Richie had a flash of unreality, as they all sat in the lobby, getting ready to say goodbye to Eddie.

One minute he was sitting there, running his mouth and listening to Eddie talk about getting back to work, and the next he was at Derry Elementary in the lunchroom. Greta Bowie, Sally Mueller, Calvin and Cissy Clark and his other classmates were there, standing in a loose circle around him, all with mean looks on their young, clear-skinned faces. “We know what you are.” Greta sing-songed. “You’re a dirty little queer-boy.” Calvin and Cissy giggled, and they all started chanting, “You have AIDS, you have AIDS.”

“Are we boring you, Richie?” Mike said, and Richie snapped back into the here and now. 

He was disoriented for a moment - the vision had been hyper-real - but he guessed he’d only zoned out for a few seconds. He shook it off, taking a long drink from his beer bottle, with hands that only trembled slightly. He didn’t have time to spiral right now, and had no desire to let everyone know what a basket case he was apparently becoming. “As it happens, Mike,” he said, “I am finding this conversation a little dull. Weren’t we talking about Eddie’s job?” Eddie flipped him the bird.

It hurt to see Eddie leave.


	2. Three Nights in Reno

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richie still wasn’t sleeping. The impact of nightly dreams of Eddie dying had not diminished. He woke every night, jolting himself awake, usually with tears drying on his face. Sometimes he dreamed, in horrific detail, that the events under Neibolt Street ended with Eddie dying under there. This was the most frequent dream, but there were others. Eddie dying in mundane, everyday ways. In a car crash. Stepping out into New York traffic, distracted by something on his phone, and getting hit by a speeding cab. Choking on a fish bone. An asthma attack. All equally distressing to Richie.

When he was back in LA, Richie and the Losers stayed in touch.

Richie still wasn’t sleeping. The impact of nightly dreams of Eddie dying had not diminished. He woke every night, jolting himself awake, usually with tears drying on his face. Sometimes he dreamed, in horrific detail, that the events under Neibolt Street ended with Eddie dying under there. This was the most frequent dream, but there were others. Eddie dying in mundane, everyday ways. In a car crash. Stepping out into New York traffic, distracted by something on his phone, and getting hit by a speeding cab. Choking on a fish bone. An asthma attack. All equally distressing to Richie.

He hadn’t had another episode where he checked out of reality like he had in the hospital, but there were occasional, brief instances, lasting a few seconds at most, where he was touched by cold dread, and terrifying flashes of people and places that weren’t real. 

It went on this way for several weeks. Richie was drinking too much. He looked awful. 

Steve wanted him to see a doctor or to book an appointment with his therapist. He kept grumbling about how bad Richie looked, how his concentration was shot, how he was off his game. Richie deflected and joked around and eventually told Steve about Stan’s death as a way of diverting Steve’ s attention to something that, at least, wasn’t crazy. As a last ditch attempt to change the subject, he even started to talk to Steve about coming out publicly. Steve just shrugged like it was no big deal, and said “whatever you want, Rich,” leaving Richie wondering if Steve had known all along.

He was starting to think Steve might be right that he needed some professional help. Although Richie thought a stay on a locked ward might be the likely outcome, if he told a doctor what he’d been experiencing.

The Reno shows were approaching. Richie could tell Steve was concerned, even though he didn’t say it, that Richie would bomb again. It was a possibility, Richie couldn’t deny it. He cringed at the memory of his last live set, on the night that Mike had called, and the memories started trickling back, causing him to forget half his material.

He was on a Skype call with the Losers. Ben and Bev had made it to Ben’s place in Nebraska, and were sharing a screen. Bill was calling in from his hotel room in England, and Mike was in Florida, Eddie was still off work, and would usually call in from his Manhattan townhouse, but this time he wasn’t on the call. It was just as well, as Richie was in sweatpants and was eating dry cereal (he’d run out of milk two days ago), rattling around his kitchen. It was three in the afternoon.

“How are things going for you, Richie?” Mike said, in an abrupt change of topic.

“It’s all good out here.” Richie said, in what he hoped was a breezy manner. “The sun is shining, I’m working on some new material - my own, this time - for the Reno shows. Keeping busy.”

Richie noticed the identical look of concern that passed across their faces, and Ben said, “We’re worried about you Richie - you don’t look good. Have you thought about seeing someone?”

“Maybe a therapist?” Bev said.

Richie knew a co-ordinated ambush when he saw one, he’d been the subject of several interventions in his time. He felt his temper flare. “Is there a fucking group chat dedicated to my mental health?” He said. “Is that what’s going on here? Are you all sending each other sad face emojis about how screwed up I am? Talking about how to stage this intervention? Fuck you guys, fuck all of you.”

“No, Richie.” Bill said. “It’s not like that.”

“What is it like then, Bill?” Richie snapped. “What have you been saying?” He knew instantly, by looking at Bill’s horrified face and the puzzled expression on everyone else’s, that Bill had not broken his confidence, that he’d not mentioned the incident in the hospital. 

“Beep, beep, Richie.” He said.

It was a mark of how far Richie was off his game, that he’d given himself away with his own temper tantrum. His anger faded, and he put his head in his hands. 

“OK, I can’t talk about this right now. I’m out.” Richie said. “Talk to you guys later.” He closed the lid of his laptop. 

Bill, ever the leader, called Richie back half an hour later. Richie thought about sending it straight to voicemail. Instead, he abandoned his cereal, pulling a beer from the fridge. He popped it open on his counter-top and reluctantly answered the call.

“We need to talk.” Bill said.

“Not in the mood, Bill.” Richie replied.

“I don’t care if you’re in the mood.” Bill said. “It’s after midnight here, and I’ve got to be on set at 6am, so I’m not going to waste time talking you round. Just listen, Richie, please”

Richie stayed uncharacteristically silent, waiting to hear what Bill would say. He noticed that Bill’s stutter had disappeared, now that he was no longer in Derry, and he was struck, not for the first time, that he really didn’t know much about adult Bill, or any of the Losers. Richie remembered how they’d all slotted back together that first night back in Derry, when the memories of their childhood were freshly emerging. He remembered how natural it had felt, and how it had felt like he’d found a bunch of missing pieces.

“I know what’s going on,” Bill said. “It’s obvious that you’re not doing well. You look terrible. We want to help.”

Richie still wasn’t in the mood to have this conversation. He was too sober for this. “I’m not sleeping, Bill. That’s all this is. I look like shit, and I’m running on empty. I’m exhausted.” 

“Are you still having nightmares?” Bill said.

“Are you?” Richie said, nastily, and instantly regretted his sharp tone. 

“No, actually, I’m not.” Bill said, not rising to Richie’s provocation. “Not all the time, anyway.”

“OK - I’m still having nightmares.” Richie said. “Every night since Derry. Sometimes more than once a night. They’re still all about Eddie dying.”

“Is it always Eddie who dies?” Bill asked.

“Yes.”

“Do you think that means something?” Bill said. 

“I fucking hope it’s not some kind of twisted premonition.” Richie said.

“That’s not what I meant.” Bill said. “Do you think it could have something to do with how you feel about Eddie?”

Richie took another drink of beer, wishing it was something stronger. “Do we have to talk about this?” He said. 

“It might be helpful to talk about it.” Bill said. “What have you got to lose?”

“My self-respect.” Richie muttered. “OK, OK,” He said. “I’ll talk about it.” He paused, trying to marshal his thoughts. “This is going to sound so lame.” He said eventually. “I can’t believe I’m talking about this. So, do you remember at the Jade of the Orient when I banged the gong to convene the 2016 session of the Loser’s Club?” 

“I remember.” Bill said.

“I’d just caught a glimpse of him.” Richie said. “And I thought, ‘Oh, it’s Eddie, it’s him’ just like I had with the rest of you. But then I remembered everything I’d ever felt for Eddie, all those memories flooded back. But it was the same as before. Eddie didn’t see it. He didn’t know. I’d spent my entire life trying to fill an Eddie-shaped gap that I didn’t even realise was there. All the shitty relationships, all the one night stands, everything, just me trying to fill a void. You get it, right Bill?”

“Have you seen my wife?” Bill said. Richie had never met Audra, but he’d seen a couple of her movies, and he knew what she looked like. Who she looked like.

“Yeah.” Richie said. “Now I know what I’m missing. It’s worse than not knowing. And on top of that, I’m constantly on the verge of a panic attack. I can’t concentrate, my anxiety levels are off the chart, and I can’t take any of the good drugs - you know why - I’m a mess.”

“You’ve always been a mess, Richie.” Bill said. “You were a mess as a kid, you’re a mess now.” Richie laughed. It was true. “But you’ll get through this. Go see someone. I know you can’t talk about everything - we’d all be locked up if we did - but you can talk about how you feel about Eddie. Get some help dealing with it.”

“OK.” Richie said. “I’ll go back to therapy.”

“Good.” Bill said. “I’ll be back in LA in two weeks. I’ll see you then.”

“See you later, Bill.” Richie said.

Richie felt a little better. He finished his beer, and booked an appointment with his therapist. Maybe it was time to be more honest about his sexuality.

***

The therapy was helpful. Richie was sleeping better. He managed to write some new material that he worked into his sets for Reno. He shaved off his beard, and the purple shadows under his eyes started to fade. Steve was happy, and stopped nagging him at every meeting. He apologised to everyone for his Skype tantrum, and he stayed in touch with the them. He even managed to act normally on his calls with Eddie, who was recovering from his injuries, and was hopeful he’d be able to get back to work soon.

Richie should have known it wouldn’t last.

***

Richie flew to Reno and checked into his hotel. He had a mountain view and a well-stocked mini bar and he’d been recognised by a fan in the lobby, which was flattering. 

He was booked for three nights. He and Steve hung out in the hotel bar the night before the first gig. Richie was aware that Steve was monitoring his drinking, but he didn’t call him on it. 

The first two shows went well. Richie’s new jokes hit their mark, and his old material got the usual laughter. He felt confident and in control on stage, and made time to meet some of his fans afterwards. He was feeling good, in control.

On the third night, Richie was backstage, listening for his cue. He shook out his arms and bounced on his heels to try to release some of his nerves. It didn’t matter how many times he did this, a live performance was always a nerve-wracking endeavour. 

There was always the possibility that he would forget his material, or that the crowd would be hostile, or worse, silent. Richie had done many gigs, especially in the small venues in the early years, that had bombed. Sometimes the crowd was too drunk and rowdy, sometimes Richie himself was too drunk. Some audiences just didn’t find his college humour funny, and sometimes there were one or two assholes who made it their mission to disrupt the set. Until the recent incident, Richie had taken all of this in his stride. The Night of Mike’s Call (Richie thought of it in capitals) had been the first time he’d failed to finish a set.

He peeked around the curtain, taking care to remain hidden from the audience’s view. The auditorium was, unsurprisingly, in darkness, but the crowd seemed in good spirits. He downed his bourbon and tossed a mint into his mouth. He estimated he had about three minutes until the first act wrapped. 

Almost showtime. 

Richie enjoyed performing. He thrived on the right kind of attention, the laughter and the adulation. People paid to see him, which was the biggest validation. 

Richie rocked back on his heels, crunching the mint on his teeth, and stretching his back until his spine crackled. 

One minute, he was there, standing in the wings and trying to stretch the tension out of his body, and the next minute he was in front of the house on Neibolt Street. 

It was a sunny day, Richie could hear a train running through town and the sound of birdsong. He could feel his pupils contract with the contrast between backstage and the bright sunshine, and he could still taste the mint on his tongue. 

Richie was small, a kid, judging by his perspective. He watched, horrified, as a leper (is this Eddie’s leper? his brain contributed querulously, why am I seeing Eddie’s leper?) pulled itself out from under the porch, grotesquely leaving part of the flesh of its arms on the wooden slats. The blood ran sluggishly down its arm, leaving quarter-sized droplets on the grass, turning it black, smoking. “I’ll blow you for a dime.” The leper croaked out, and Richie could smell the disease and death on its breath, even from across the yard. 

The leper advanced, slowly, pulling itself upright on the porch railings. “I’ll blow you for free!” It croaked as it staggered towards him, grabbing at its crotch. Yellowing bandages trailed behind it. Richie backed away, horrified.

“I know your secret.” It said. White maggots fell from its nose, falling to the ground and wriggling towards Richie, turning the grass brown as they moved. 

Richie tripped and landed on his ass. He could smell rotting meat, the sickness smell of garbage. He covered his mouth with his arm, fighting the urge to throw up, using the other arm to crab-crawl away, without taking his eyes off the leper. His throat felt constricted, and he couldn’t scream. 

“You’re like me.” The leper said, swaying, about five feet from Richie. More maggots fell, moving sluggishly towards him. 

With his younger-self perspective, Richie understood. He was like the leper. He knew he wasn’t normal. He knew boys weren’t supposed to have the kind of thoughts he had about other boys. He knew what happened to people who gave in to their sinful thoughts. Sunday school was full of stories about hellfire and damnation. He’d heard about the diseases that afflicted immoral people. The leper was surely proof. 

But the younger-self he was currently, impossibly, inhabiting was overlaid with Richie’s grown up consciousness. The same consciousness that was now a lapsed Catholic, who’d mostly forgotten his own sexual orientation for twenty seven years, but who knew internalised homophobia when he saw it. The older-Richie was grossed out by the leper, he was terrified by the thought of it touching him, but he was not afraid of what it represented. He was not afraid, or ashamed, of being gay, and he didn’t care who knew it. 

“You’re going to be like me in the end.” The leper croaked, and his voice sounded like Richie’s. It lurched forward, as Richie scrabbled back, desperate to put more distance between them.

He jolted back to himself, as the compère announced his name, feeling shaken and disoriented, barely able to see in the darkness. He could still seeing the leper when he closed his eyes, and could almost smell its stench. Richie had seconds to compose himself, before he was walking on stage. Where the fuck were these homophobic little vignettes from Derry coming from? 

“Good evening Reno!” Richie yelled, to whoops and hollers from the crowd. His throat was dry, and his hands, gripping the microphone, were trembling. His heart was pounding and he was flooded with adrenaline. Richie powered past the urge to vomit, taking shallow breaths, as his mouth - seemingly operating on autopilot - ran through the first five minutes of his set. 

He had no idea what had just happened. 

Richie managed to limp through the rest of his set, knowing he was off his game, but relieved that the audience hadn’t seemed to notice. Much of his material felt jaded and dishonest. But the laughter kept coming.

When he looked back later, Richie wasn’t sure whether it was the shock of his vision (or hallucination) of the leper, or his own growing disquiet with the recently realised disconnect between his public and private personas, and the material he was performing. In the end, the trigger didn’t matter, because Richie’s mouth - not his brain - was running the show, and he said. “I wasn’t planning on doing this tonight, but you’re such a great crowd, and I’d like you to be the first to hear this.” He paused, and the crowd paused with him. There was almost silence in the auditorium as Richie continued. “I know I talk a lot about my girlfriend in my shows, but the truth is, it’s been a long time since I had a girlfriend.” There was a small reaction from the audience, some laughter and some sounds of commiseration. “No, no, it’s fine. I’m not in the market for a girlfriend, but if you know any eligible bachelors, then hit me up. I’m a bit late to the rainbow party, and I’ve got some catching up to do.” A small element of the crowd whooped at this revelation. Then he segued into a joke about how Rue Paul’s Drag Race is like a televised set text, and he didn’t realise being gay came with homework. 

Richie was relieved when his set was over. He was already second-guessing himself, as he put the microphone back in its cradle, waved to the crowd and left the stage. Should he have told his parents before coming out to the world at forty years old? Should he have told Steve, or the Losers first?

Steve was waiting backstage. “Some advance notice would have been nice.” He said, dryly handing Richie a drink.

“I didn’t plan it.” Richie said, taking the bourbon and downing it in a single gulp. 

“Why am I not surprised?” Steve said. “We can talk later, you’ve got visitors.” He clapped Richie on the back. “I”m proud of you.” Richie nodded, not fully trusting himself to speak, and made his way back to his dressing room.

Eddie, Mike and Bill were waiting for him.

Richie was sure his jaw dropped in the manner of a cartoon character. 

“Surprise!” Mike said. 

“What are you Losers doing here?” Richie said, pulling himself together and sweeping Mike into a hug. He hugged Bill and then turned to Eddie. “Are you medically cleared to for hugs, Eds?”

“Shut up, idiot.” Eddie said, throwing his arms around Richie. Richie hugged him gingerly, patting him on the shoulders, not wanting to jostle any injuries. He looked Eddie up and down, trying to discern how well he was recovering. “Stop looking at me like you’re trying to see the hole in my chest.” Eddie snapped. “It’s healing fine. And don’t call me Eds.”

“It’s great to see you all.” Richie said. “Unexpected, but great. I don’t know about you guys, but I need a drink.” Richie busied his hands, pouring drinks for everyone, which also gave him time, while his back was turned, to school his features. He turned back to the group and made eye contact, briefly, with Bill, who shrugged minutely.

“It was a good show, Richie.” Bill said. 

Richie nodded. “Thanks Bill. So, you guys saw that?” He said. “My grand public coming out?”

“We’re proud of you.” Mike said. “I can’t imagine what possessed you to do it on stage in front of five hundred strangers, but still...”

Richie downed his drink and poured another. “It was the right time.” He said. Mike and Bill nodded, Eddie just looked at him with a slight frown. 

The truth was that Richie was still rattled by the vision of the leper, and rattled by the fact that he’d had another hallucination. He could take the time to unpick what had happened, to think about what links there might be between the incidents, to consider what might be happening inside his head. But this was Richie, so instead he downed his drink, and said, “We need to celebrate tonight, guys. The gang is back together!”

They ended up in a karaoke bar downtown. 

“Do you realise,” Eddie said, drunkenly leaning his head on Richie’s shoulder, while Bill and Mike were dueting You’ve Lost That Loving Feeling, badly, on stage. “This is the first time we’ve been together outside Derry?”

“I’m glad I didn’t forget you again, Eddie.” Richie said, slurring. He was catastrophically drunk, but not so drunk that he couldn’t appreciate Eddie’s proximity to him in the booth, and get a tingly feeling at each point of contact; Eddie’s head on his shoulder, their knees touching lightly. He patted Eddie on the knee.

“I’m glad I didn’t forget you.” Eddie said, poking him in the side. It was almost like being twelve again, Eddie and Richie, in each other’s orbit, poking and prodding, trying to get a reaction.

Richie pushed his glasses back up his nose, squinting at Mike and Bill. “They are terrible.”

“Agreed.” Eddie said, hauling himself upright, and taking another drink of his gin and prune juice.

“We should get some shots.” Richie announced. He staggered to the bar, and came back with six sambuca shots. They downed three each, and Richie’s memory became hazy. He recalled singing the Ghostbusters theme, and dancing to Its Raining Men with Mike. He remembered Eddie leaning over the bar, and almost falling on his ass. 

It was one of the best nights of his life.

***

He woke up back in his hotel room, fully dressed, face down on his bed, with a raging hangover. He was due at the airport in two hours, and needed to hustle. He texted the group chat to thank them for coming to his show, and saying that he hoped they’d see each other soon.

***

The nightmares started up again, and reality continued to warp and twist during Richie’s waking hours.

He could be standing in line at Starbucks, waiting for his caramel latte, when the clatter and hiss of the coffee shop would fade away, and he’d be in darkness hearing footsteps approaching, knowing, inexplicably, that something bad was coming for him.

Or he could be driving along the freeway, and the road ahead would disappear, to be replaced by a forest, and Richie would be stumbling through the trees, lost and disoriented. 

His nerves were shot. 

It was becoming impossible to explain away what was happening with any logical or rational excuse. Richie was no longer worried about Eddie’s survival, all the evidence suggested he would make a full recovery. So why was he seeing Eddie die, night after night? What was causing him to hallucinate? What did his visions mean?

Richie started keeping a notebook, which detailed the dreams and the waking nightmares. He wasn’t even sure why he kept notes. If nothing else, it would definitely help his doctors commit him to the psych ward. Perhaps that was where he ought to be. The most recent entry in Richie’s chicken scratch just said “In the grocery store. Buried alive. Approx 10 seconds.” 

He was starting to think he’d need to stop dancing around the topic and bring this up with his therapist. He came close at his first appointment after Reno.

“I keep having the same nightmare, repeatedly.” He said. His therapist, Dr Gold, sat silently, waiting for him to continue. “I keep dreaming that my friend is dying in front of me.” He said. “In different ways, but always the same outcome.” 

Richie fidgeted uneasily, wondering if he should, or if he could, say more. He might say that he had seen Eddie die so many times, but each night felt as traumatic as the first time, and that Richie woke most nights with his heart pounding and tears drying on his cheeks. He might say that he’d hallucinated a whole dream sequence in which he had been told, and believed, that Eddie had died in the hospital. He might say that Eddie was the reason he had accepted the truth about his sexuality. He might say that dreaming about Eddie was the closest thing he had to the man he had loved once, and still loved, after twenty seven long years. 

Instead he said he was worried that his anxiety was getting out of control, and Dr Gold talked about changing his prescription. 

While Richie was grappling with a fraying sense of reality, Steve was dealing with the consequences of Richie coming out of the closet. Some potential bookings faded away, which was shitty, but was to be expected, and Steve was trying to persuade Richie to do some voice-work for an animated movie. Richie was thinking about doing it. He needed to keep busy while he was reworking his material.

Bill took him out for dinner, and spent the entire time trying to talk Richie into joining Tinder. Richie resisted, mainly because he was still hung up on Eddie, but also because Tinder, Bill? Really? 

“You just need to get out there.” Bill said. “Meet some people. Have a little fun.” Bill made Richie download the app on his phone, and extracted a promise to have a look at it later. Richie had no intention of following through on that promise.

Richie considered telling Bill about the recent hallucinations, about the leper and the shorter-lived slips out of reality, but decided against it. He was afraid that Bill would realise that it wasn’t just sleep deprivation, that there was something more sinister at work, and the possibility that Richie was coming undone.

Richie had a history of struggling with his mental health. Bouts of depression had plagued him through his twenties and thirties, he’d once struggled with drug-abuse that came close to being an addiction, and he still struggled with anxiety. He’d always supposed that the darkness in him was a necessary counter-balance to his life as a comedian, a kind of karmic payback. If he was honest, he didn’t question it much. It just was. Like the seasons turned, Richie’s mood would sometimes cycle down. He’d go back to the psychiatrist, get a new prescription and book himself into therapy. In other words, he dealt with it.

This current situation was different by some order of magnitude. 

Assuming he was mentally ill (and what other explanation could there be?), Richie thought that seeking help for hallucinations would fast-track him to the psych ward, at worst, or to the kind of heavy-duty drugs that turned people sluggish and slow. Needless to say, Richie was hoping things would improve by themselves, without that kind of intervention. Other than the medical route, he didn’t know where to turn to for help. Steve would frogmarch him to the psychiatrist himself, if he knew, and if he confided too much in the Losers, news of his situation might reach Eddie, which was unacceptable. Richie had no intention of telling Eddie how he felt, or that he was being tortured by nightly visions of Eddie’s death. Eddie was married, and Eddie was not gay. Richie’s faults might be numerous, but he was not the kind of man who would put himself in the middle of someone else’s marriage.

He had taken note that many of his issues were rooted in his feelings for Eddie. Although self-awareness was not Richie’s forte, he was a smart guy, and he was able to see the patterns in the madness. His dreams were constantly about Eddie dying. Two of the most significant hallucinations - the leper and the middle-school taunting - had been about Richie’s homosexuality, all of the others had been creepy or outright terrifying, but more random.

He wondered if his history of depression had actually stemmed from his inability to remember his own sexual orientation, or if he’d been missing Eddie, without even being able to recall him. His actual romantic history was awash with short-lived failures. Relationships with women, interspersed with brief dalliances with men that barely lived up to the title of one-night stands, given their brevity. His relationships had been volatile, draining, and usually left Richie relieved when they inevitably broke down. His mother, who even now was holding out for grandchildren, was usually more upset than he was, when each woman left him. With the benefit of hindsight, Richie now wondered if his dad had always seen the truth in Richie, even when he hadn’t known the truth himself. His father always looked a little sad, whenever Richie brought a new girlfriend home.

Richie knew that he couldn’t carry on indefinitely like this. The purple bruises were back under his eyes, and he was finding it difficult to get through each night without a few drinks to help him sleep. Given his history, this wasn’t the greatest idea. He was spending too long reviewing his notebook, looking for patterns or signs that would help him make sense of what he was experiencing. In the end, he kept coming back to mental illness, and an ever diminishing likelihood that things would get better by themselves.

He told Bill none of this. When they left the restaurant, Richie promised Bill, again, that he’d look into Tinder. He didn’t.


	3. Thanksgiving in Nebraska

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richie’s flight was delayed by three hours and arrived in Lincoln, Nebraska late afternoon. He fought his way through the day-before-Thanksgiving airport crowds to pick up his rental car. 
> 
> He programmed Ben’s address into the sat nav. He had about an hour’s drive, and he was feeling drained, so he cranked up the volume of the radio, chugged the double-shot espresso that he’d bought at the airport, and opened the window. Traffic was light, compared with Los Angeles. Richie put his foot down, grateful that the first snowfall of the season hadn’t arrived yet.

Richie’s flight was delayed by three hours and arrived in Lincoln, Nebraska late afternoon. He fought his way through the day-before-Thanksgiving airport crowds to pick up his rental car. 

He programmed Ben’s address into the sat nav. He had about an hour’s drive, and he was feeling drained, so he cranked up the volume of the radio, chugged the double-shot espresso that he’d bought at the airport, and opened the window. Traffic was light, compared with Los Angeles. Richie put his foot down, grateful that the first snowfall of the season hadn’t arrived yet. 

Ben’s place was off highway 63. Richie had been warned that it was remote, but he was starting to doubt the sat nav’s accuracy as he wound his was down a dirt track that didn’t look like it was heading anywhere promising. He came over the top of a small hill, and saw the twinkling lights of a glass fronted building that reminded him, in a weird non-specific way, of the glass tunnel between the adult and children’s libraries back in Derry. 

He drove down, parked in front of the house and got his bag out of the trunk. As he was turning to walk up the path, the front door banged open and Ben called “Glad you finally made it!”

“Ben!” Richie pulled him into a hug. “Good to see you, man.” He held Ben at arms length, and winked at him. “Still as hot as ever.” 

Ben feigned shock and Richie heard, “Beep beep, Richie.” from Bev, somewhere behind Ben. 

Richie adopted a southern gentlemen voice and said, “Why, Miss Beverley, I’m not trying to steal him away from you, I swear.”

“Just get in here.” Bev said. “You’re letting the cold in.”

Richie followed Ben inside. Ben’s house was spacious and light, with a open plan ground floor space that encompassed a living area, kitchen and dining space. 

Mike was sitting at the kitchen island, talking to Bill, who was rummaging through the fridge. Richie greeted them, briefly, and followed Ben on his tour of the house. 

There were several rooms upstairs, including the single room where Richie would sleep. He threw his bag down on the bed, and went downstairs. 

Ben was cooking; wielding a small sharp knife like an accomplished chef, and talking to Mike about his journey. It turned out, Mike was spending a while in Oklahoma. 

“I’m in no rush to settle down.” Mike said, and Richie felt instantly, and irrationally, guilty, once again, that Mike has stayed in Derry when the rest of them had escaped and made successful lives for themselves, even if those lives were only superficially successful. He didn’t think any of them had been truly happy before Mike’s phone calls had triggered their memories of their childhoods. Except maybe for Stan. 

He missed Stan. 

This was the first time, since Derry, that they’d all be together. Richie, had felt Stan’s absence back in Derry, but he hadn’t had time to grieve his death while they were fighting the demon clown. Now, he felt Stan’s absence acutely.

Ben poured him a drink. Richie sat quietly, listening to his friends bickering, and allowed himself to feel the grief of losing Stan, just for a moment.

He heard a car pull up outside. It must be Eddie. Richie downed his drink, feeling it dull the edges of his pain. This was not the time to have an emotional breakdown. He put his game face on.

“Eddie Spaghetti!”

“Don’t call me that.” Eddie snapped, as he entered, pulling an oversized suitcase behind him. “You look like shit, Richie. What have you been doing to yourself?”

“Why thank you, Eddie.” Richie said. “You, on the other hand, look as cute as ever.” Richie pinched Eddie’s cheek, as he sat down next to Richie in the kitchen. Eddie slapped Richie’s hand away, telling Richie to fuck off. 

Ben served dinner, and they moved to the dining table. Richie looked at the six of them, together for the first time since Derry, seven months previously, and could almost see them as kids in the clubhouse. He had a vivid memory of the day they’d sworn to return to Derry, and realised, or remembered, that they had not been together as a group after that day.

Ben and Bev looked happy together, Richie noticed the little touches and the smiles they reserved just for each other. Mike looked relaxed, unburdened from the duty he’d carried simply because his parents had chosen to stay in Derry, when theirs chose to leave. Bill’s stutter had vanished, and he regaled them at dinner with tales of Hollywood, from his outsider’s perspective. Eddie looked healthy.

Richie drank too much at dinner, and continued drinking through the evening. 

Ben and Bev went to bed, followed by Mike, and then Bill, leaving Eddie and Richie sitting in front of the open fire. Eddie was drinking gin, and Richie was working his way through the best part of a bottle of vodka. 

“So how have you been, Eds?” Richie said.

Eddie stretched out on the sofa opposite Richie and fixed him with a glare. “Don’t call me Eds, Richie. How many times do I have to tell you?” He said. “I’m fine. I’m back to normal, physically. All healed and given the all clear by the doctors. You wouldn’t expect me to say this, but I’m glad that I don’t’ need the medical attention any more.”

“But are you happy?” Richie said. “The others seem happy - and they deserve to after everything we’ve done. The universe owes us, doesn’t it, after what we did? Are you happy, Eddie?”

“I don’t know.” Eddie said. There was a long pause. Eddie pulled himself upright, hugged his knees to his chest, and stared into the fire. Then he continued, without making eye contact with Richie. “I’m bisexual.” He said. “I didn’t want to overshadow your coming out moment back in Reno, but I’ve been wanting to let you know.”

Richie was stunned into silence. “Oh, cool.” He said eventually. 

Eddie looked at him, one eyebrow raised. “That’s all you’ve got to say? You get paid to run your mouth, and that’s all you can say? For fuck’s sake, Richie. I tell you something that I’ve literally never told anyone in my life and you say that?” He was working himself into an angry rant that was so typically Eddie, that Richie almost wanted him to continue. He’d always enjoyed provoking Eddie until he snapped. Instead he slid off the sofa, shuffled across the floor on his knees, and gripped Eddie’s hands. 

“It’s cool, Eddie.” Richie said, making eye contact and stopping Eddie’s tirade.

Eddie sat upright, leaned forward and kissed him. For the second time in a minute, Richie was stunned. 

Richie could taste the gin on Eddie’s lips, he could hear the squeak of the leather sofa as Eddie leaned forward, forcing him to rock back on his heels. He could hear the crackle of the fire, and he could smell Eddie’s fresh, watery cologne. Eddie grabbed at his shirt, pulling him closer, and tangled his fist in Richie’s hair, manhandling him into a better position.

Richie leaned into the kiss for several glorious moments. He held onto Eddie’s biceps, feeling the soft cashmere of Eddie’s sweater under his fingers. He was lost in the feeling of Eddie’s lips moving against his, in the fire of Eddie’s tongue licking into his mouth. Richie had, after all, spent several years during his mis-spent youth fantasising about a moment like this, and believing that it would never happen. 

And yet, here he was, kneeling on the floor of Ben’s living room, holding onto Eddie and kissing him. Eddie’s legs were bracketing Richie’s torso. Richie could feel each point of contact like a brand burning its way to permanence on his skin.

He knew he had to stop this.

Eddie was drunk. Eddie was married. 

Richie pulled away. Eddie tried to pull him back, but Richie stopped him with a hand on his chest. “We can’t do this.” Richie said. He straightened his glasses in time to see a look of horror on Eddie’s face. Eddie pulled back and started to apologise.

“No, Eddie.” Richie said. “It’s not that I don’t want to - I really do, you have no idea - but not like this.” Richie could hardly believe he was being so mature. “Not while you’re married. Not while you’re drunk.”

Eddie’s face closed off. “It’s fine, Richie.” He said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to force you...” 

“Listen, Eddie.” Richie said, gripping Eddie’s knees in his hands. “I probably wouldn’t say this if I were sober, but this,” He indicated between the two of them. “I don’t want this, if this happens between us, to be a drunken mistake, or a dirty secret.”

Eddie backed up, moving to the other end of the sofa, and leaving Richie kneeling on the floor three feet away. He nodded, like he understood. Richie started to speak, but Eddie cut him off. “I should go to bed.” He said, standing abruptly and walking away, swaying slightly.

“Eddie, wait.” He called after him, but Eddie didn’t look back. Richie sank back onto the floor, his back against the sofa. He poured a shot of vodka, neat, and drank it. Then he poured another.

A sizeable part of Richie wished he had fewer scruples, but he felt, grudgingly, that he’d done the right thing, even if that had cost him something he wanted so badly. He touched his fingertips to his lips. Eddie had kissed him. 

***

Richie dreamed that night that Eddie died at Richie’s hand. In the dream, Richie suffocated Eddie with a pillow, holding him down until he stopped clawing at Richie’s arms, struggling to get free. When dream-Richie took the pillow away, Eddie’s lips were blue and his eyes were bulging, and dream-Richie started to scream.

It was one of the worst nightmares he’d experienced. He woke with his heart pounding in his chest, sure that the whole house would have been awakened by the noise. No-one came rushing to find out if he was being murdered in his bed, slo he assumed that his screams hadn’t bled into the real world. He was shaken up and disoriented, not remembering, for an instant where he was, before realising that he was in Nebraska, at Ben’s house in the middle of nowhere. 

It was just another nightmare. Just another episode in Richie’s slow descent into madness, he thought.

He couldn’t sleep afterwards, and he ended up in the kitchen at 4am, playing Candy Crush on his phone and drinking several cups of coffee. Ben was an early riser, and he joined Richie in the kitchen a couple of hours later, and put Richie to work peeling vegetables for the Thanksgiving dinner. 

Richie wasn’t sure at this point if he was still drunk or if he was hungover. He peeled and chopped listlessly under Ben’s direction, while Ben kept his coffee cup topped up, which was a small blessing.

The group stumbled downstairs at various points during the morning, and Ben paused in his dinner prep to cook pancakes and waffles to order. Richie couldn’t face eating. And he didn’t want to face Eddie, or more specifically, he didn’t want to face Eddie’s morning-after regret. His poor drunk, hungover heart couldn’t take any more drama.

He decided to go for a walk to clear his head.

Outside, the air was crisp, the sky was blue, and the ground was hard underfoot. Richie’s coat wasn’t really up to the challenge of late fall in Nebraska, but he’d borrowed a scarf from Ben, which he wound around his neck, and he pulled on some gloves. He followed the path round the back of the house into the woods behind. Fallen leaves coated the trail.

Richie was a city boy at heart. He preferred being within easy reach of grocery stores and movie theatres, not in the wilderness, and yet he could appreciate the still, quiet solitude of walking in such a remote area. He walked for about an hour, until his head started clearing, and then turned back. 

He still didn’t know what to do about Eddie. Ignoring it wouldn’t be an option if he wanted to be friends with Eddie, and much as Richie wanted to see Eddie, grab hold of him and kiss him again, that wasn’t an option either. The best he could hope for was that Eddie would hear him out, before the Thanksgiving visit was over, before Richie went back to LA and Eddie went back to his wife in New York, and that they could reach an understanding. Or pretend it never happened, either would work.

Richie was crunching his way through the fallen leaves, feeling guilty that he’d abandoned Ben in the kitchen, feeling guilty that he’d been an accessory to adultery, and feeling guilty that he wanted to kiss Eddie again, adultery or not. There was only so much he could be expected to resist. Richie had left most of his Catholic upbringing behind when he’d left home to go to college, but the tendency to feel guilt was a legacy of his upbringing that Richie couldn’t quite shake as an adult. He could picture his mother, a devout woman who still hoped Richie would settle down with a nice girl and give her grandchildren, and her disappointment in his life choices, both generally (she’d hoped he would become a dentist, like his father, which was a respectable profession) and specifically (if she thought Richie was some kind of home wrecker). 

He was on his way back to the house when he first registered the smell of smoke. It didn’t trouble him at first. He thought it might be someone clearing an area in the woods. He carried on walking, thinking his thoughts, his hands shoved deep in his pockets and his shoes crunching through the leaves. Until he saw the black smoke rising from the direction of the house. 

Thick black smoke was a blemish against the blue sky, Richie could see it above the trees straight ahead. He paused, unsure of what he was seeing, and it took several seconds for his brain to catch up with his senses. He could see and smell the smoke. It was coming directly from the clearing up ahead.

He started to run.

His mind was blank with panic as he sprinted along the trail, kicking up leaves and dirt as he ran. His only thought was to get to the house as quickly as he could. He shot into the clearing, slipping on wet leaves and mud as the trail turned into the landscaped garden, and sliding onto one knee. He hauled himself up.

He stood for a moment, covering his face with the scarf to block out the smoke, his eyes watering behind his glasses. The smoke was thick, acrid. The house was ablaze. The heat from this distance was intense. Richie could feel his skin prickling.

He couldn’t see anyone outside. 

The house was on fire, and no-one was outside. 

They must be inside, still. Richie tried to get close to the building, but the heat was too intense, and he was forced back, several times. He couldn’t get close. He only realised he’d been screaming everyone’s name repeatedly when his throat gave out and he collapsed to the ground, sobbing.

The front door opened. Richie looked up to see the house, whole and unblemished, and Bev, Eddie and Mike rushing out. Richie stared, stunned. He still had the sense memory of the heat and smoke, but there was no longer any evidence of a fire. The air was crisp and clear.

Bev got to him first. She found him sitting on his heels in the mud. He grasped her elbow, needing to convince himself that she was there, and to ground himself in reality. 

“Richie, what’s wrong?” She said. “What happened?”

Richie shook his head, trying to stand. Bev helped him up. He fixed his glasses, and brushed the leaves from his pants. His throat was raw from screaming and his hands were shaking. Oh god, he didn’t want Eddie to see him like this. She must have seen something on his face, because she called over her shoulder to Mike and Eddie that she had this.

“I saw a fire.” Richie said. “I thought I saw a fire.”

Bev spun round to face him, her hair flying over her shoulder. “You thought you saw a fire, or you actually saw a fire?” Her tone was business-like, not sympathetic, and she looked at him sharply. 

Richie was too worn down, emotionally wrung out and exhausted to lie or deflect. “I saw it.” He whispered.

“Has this happened before?” Bev said, and Richie nodded. “Since you came out of the Deadlights?” Richie nodded again, starting to think that Bev might know more about this than he’d thought. “It happened to me, too.” She said. “After I was in the Deadlights, I saw thing that weren’t real. Let’s get inside. We need to talk about this.”

Richie trailed behind Bev as she walked round the back of the house, into a room that had probably been Ben’s study at one time, but was now Bev’s sewing room. There was a sewing machine and several half mannequins draped in fabric. Bev sank into a chair and Richie followed.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this to you of all people,” Bev said. “But talk.”

Richie told her about the hallucinations, how he’d slip in and out of reality from time to time, how he’d lost himself entirely in the hospital, about the leper and how it had prompted his public coming out, about how real the fire had seemed. He told her about the nightmares, and his therapy, and the drinking, and how he felt he was losing his mind. 

“The same thing happened to me.” Bev said. “After I was in the Deadlights. I had nightmares for months, and I kept seeing things that weren’t real. Terrible things, Richie.” 

Richie watched as she poured a drink, noticing a tremor in her hands, as she passed it to him. It was too early to be drinking, but Richie figured these were special circumstances. He felt an immense sense of relief that there was finally someone he could talk to, and relief that, apparently, hopefully, he wasn’t going crazy.

“I didn’t tell anyone, even though I was terrified.” Bev said. “You guys were too messed up with what had happened to cope with any more drama. And once I left Derry, I forgot, and it stopped.”

“So you’re saying I have to forget everything again to make it stop?” Richie said, dryly. “That’s going to be a bummer.”

“I’m just saying that’s what happened to me.” Bev said. “I don’t think that’s an option for you. I’m pretty sure the magic is gone, since we killed It.”

“If that’s true, how is it still effecting me?” Richie said. “There must be some magic left, if it is magic that’s causing this.”

“What else could it be?” Bev said.

“I thought I was hallucinating.” Richie said. “That I might be having some kind of mental breakdown. It’s the only logical explanation, if you think about it.”

“What is logical about what we’ve seen?” Bev said. “And what we’ve done? We shrank a monster down to the size of a child, and ripped its heart from its chest with our bare hands. And that was only a few months ago.”

Richie nodded his agreement. That was true. And they’d seen and experienced far less logical things as children. Richie had a flash of memory of the werewolf of Neibolt Street, and an image of him and Bill riding away on Silver, risking life and limb as they weaved through the Main Street traffic. Some kind of magic had kept them safe as children, when they took impossible risks and survived, largely uninjured and sane, even through their trip into the sewers. Maybe that magic was still affecting him.

“So you don’t think I’m mentally ill?” Richie said.

“Well, yes, Richie, you’re as crazy as the rest of us.” Bev said. “Look at us. We’ve made careers out of our inability to shake off our childhoods, some of us married our childhoods. None of us could remember a single day before the age of eighteen until last summer. All of us are certifiably insane. Some of us just hide it better.”

“I wish I’d spoken to you sooner.” Richie said. “Bill is a useless crisis advisor.”

Bev laughed, pouring herself another shot. “You bet you should have.” She said. “Now, what are we going to do about helping you?”

“I don’t know.” Richie said. 

“We should talk to the others.” She said. 

“No, Bev. I don’t want Eddie to know.” Richie said. “Think about it. I’ve been obsessing about Eddie’s death for weeks. I’ve seen him die every night since Derry. I hallucinated a whole death in the hospital, along with a bunch of homophobic bullshit. I can’t tell him about it. It’s too embarrassing.”

“Aw Richie.” Bev said, poking Richie in the side. “Are you still sweet on Eddie?”

“Beep, beep, Beverly.” Richie said. “I don’t want to talk about it.” 

“You are!” She exclaimed. “You were in love with him before, and you still have feelings for him. Don’t look at me like that, Richard. I have eyes. I can see the obvious when it’s right in front of me.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Richie said. “Even if I had feelings for Eddie, it’s irrelevant. He’s married.”

Bev gave him a look, the same look she’d given him, aged thirteen, when she schooled him on how to use a yo-yo. A look that said she saw through his bullshit. She let him off the hook, and instead of pushing the point, she said, “Well let’s come up with something that will explain your freak out on the lawn, and get through Thanksgiving without any more drama.”

Richie put his head in his hands. He wasn’t looking forward to going back out there to explain to his friends why he’d had a breakdown on the lawn.

“Give me five minutes.” Bev said. “I’ll go talk to them.”

They got through Thanksgiving dinner. He didn’t know what Bev said to the rest of them, but no-one mentioned Richie’s freak out. Bev was awesome, and Richie was incredibly grateful for her right then.

Eddie didn’t mention what happened last night, and Richie’s attempts at banter fell flat. Eddie had a pissed off look about him. He picked at his food, and was drinking steadily. Richie was keeping pace with the drinking, which he knew was ill-advised, but his nerves were still on edge.

After dinner, Ben broke out the board games. Richie and Mike vied for the Trivial Pursuit crown, with Mike pipping Richie at the post due to his superior knowledge of sports, always Richie’s Achilles heel. Bev played monopoly ruthlessly, taking no prisoners, and crowing triumphantly when Ben landed on her hotel on Park Place. She won convincingly, which Richie could see pissed Eddie off immensely, but even then, he failed to respond to Richie’s attempts to engage him with jokes and witty asides.

Ben tried to feed them again, but no-one could stomach any more food. Richie was a bit beyond buzzed by early evening and took himself off to bed. 

He had another nightmare.

The next morning, Eddie had an early flight back to New York. They waved him off from the doorstep, and Richie had to stamp out the urge to call out, to take a final chance to get Eddie alone to talk to him about what had happened between them. Instead he waved as Eddie drove away, and then stomped back inside, angry at himself for the missed opportunity. 

His flight was early evening. 

Bev cornered him in his room, as he was shoving his things haphazardly back into his travel bag. 

“Got a minute?” Bev said, and Richie understood this was not a question. He sat on the bed, and Bev sat next to him. She continued. “I’ve got some ideas about how we can help you. I’ve been speaking to Bill. We both think you need to go back to Derry.”

“You’re kidding.” Richie said.

“Think about it.” Bev said. “You said it yourself, there must be some magic left, if you’re still influenced by it. And the magic is in Derry.”

“For fuck’s sake, Bev.” Richie said. “Derry’s the last place I want to go to.”

“You might not have a choice.” Bev said. “If you ever want to sleep peacefully again. I know you had another nightmare last night. How much more can you take?”

Richie saw the sense in what Bev was saying. “Even if I go back, no-one of us have any idea about what to do next.”

“We’ll figure it out.” Bev said. “All of us. We’ve got your back.” 

Richie doubted whether Eddie had his back right now, but he nodded. “Thanks Bev, that means a lot. I’ll think about it.” He said, finally, and Bev nodded, probably realising that’s the best she’d get from him. She patted him on the knee, stood up and left him alone. Richie finished up his packing and prepared to leave for the airport.


	4. Derry (again)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back in LA, Richie’s nightmares continued, and his mental health declined with every hour of lost sleep. He was still drinking too much, and was snappy and spectacularly unfunny. Steve was on the verge of an intervention, and Richie was immensely pissed off about the voice work he’d been booked to do. 
> 
> He was also pissed off at Eddie’s radio silence. He knew from talking to the others that Eddie was still in contact with them. He just wasn’t talking to Richie, and was avoiding the group Skype calls whenever Richie dialled in.

Back in LA, Richie’s nightmares continued, and his mental health declined with every hour of lost sleep. He was still drinking too much, and was snappy and spectacularly unfunny. Steve was on the verge of an intervention, and Richie was immensely pissed off about the voice work he’d been booked to do. 

He was also pissed off at Eddie’s radio silence. He knew from talking to the others that Eddie was still in contact with them. He just wasn’t talking to Richie, and was avoiding the group Skype calls whenever Richie dialled in. 

Richie could understand why Eddie was avoiding him. He was probably angry and embarrassed at Richie rejecting his advances, and Richie hadn’t had the opportunity to explain himself properly. At least, not at a time when Eddie was actually listening. Now it didn’t look like Eddie was going to give him the chance.

Richie was furious at himself for the missed opportunity and spent Christmas alone; drunk and angry.

In the New Year, Bill invited Richie for dinner, and spent the entire evening listening to Richie complaining about Eddie. Eventually he snapped.

“For God’s sake Richie, this has got to stop.” He said. “You need to move on. Get back out there. Stop obsessing about Eddie and find someone new.”

“I don’t think I can.” Richie said. 

“Why not?” Bill said.

“I dream about him every night. I watch him die every night.” Richie said. “I can’t move on while he’s occupying my fucking brain.”

“Then we need to find a solution.” Bill said. “You can’t go on like this.”

Richie knew Bill was right. Later, he called Bev. It looked like he was going back to Derry after all.

***  
It took several weeks for the Losers to clear their schedules, as Richie refused to take advantage of their willingness to drop everything to help him. They’d done that once already less than a year ago. They were all adults, with serious responsibilities: Richie had to finish the voice work he’d been doing, Bill needed to get his new manuscript to his publisher, and Ben needed to get one of his projects on the ground. Bev was still wrangling with her piece of shit husband over her business and their divorce, and Richie had no idea was Eddie was doing, since they hadn’t spoken since Thanksgiving. 

In early March, Richie drove his rental car back into the Derry Town limits, following the same path from the airport that he’d driven back in May, and parked outside the Derry Town House. There was still snow on the ground. It had been a lifetime since Richie had experienced a Maine winter. As a twenty-year resident of LA, he was no longer equipped to cope with the cold. All the more reason to hate Derry.

He checked in, dumped his stuff, and made his way back to the bar. The last time he’d been in this bar, Bill had been counselling him through his first breakdown, and Eddie had been in the hospital. This time, he sat alone, waiting for the others to arrive.

He was nervous. Eddie would be arriving in town soon, and at some point, he knew they’d have to talk. He’d spent most of the drive rehearsing what he’d say, oscillating between downplaying the entire thing in the hope of preserving some kind of friendship, and flaying himself open so Eddie could see what was inside him.

It was Mike who found him in the bar first.

Mike pulled him into a hug. “Good to see you.” He said. “How are you?”

“Slowly coming apart at the seams.” Richie replied, holding onto Mike. “Wouldn’t be in this shit hole if the situation wasn’t a dire emergency.” He said, referring to both the Derry Town House - did anyone actually work here? It looked like the place hadn’t been cleaned since they were here the last time - and to Derry itself.

Like all of them, Richie had a complicated relationship with Derry. He had some good memories of his childhood, overlaid with the terror of that summer, and the crushing, casual homophobia that has such an impact on his psyche that he stayed closeted for thirty years. And of course, he now had his memories back, which made a lot of his past issues make sense. He finally understood why he’d been in therapy for such a long time.

“Dramatic as ever, Richie” Mike said, sitting opposite Richie. “I didn’t expect to be back in town so soon either. But you’re in luck. I’ve been doing my research remotely. I think I know what we need to do.”

Ben and Bev clattered into reception and Mike stood and rushed to greet them, sweeping Bev into an enthusiastic embrace, and clapping Ben on the back. They left their bags and joined Richie in the bar. 

Mike told them that he’d been doing some research, but said he wanted to wait until they were all together before telling them what he’d discovered. He’d booked them a table at Jade of the Orient, and told them to meet him there at seven thirty. Richie wasn’t sure if this was hilarious or the apex of insanity. He was off his game, so both the comedic and sarcastic opportunities presented by Mike’s announcement went un-utilised. He could tell that the others were unsettled by his uncharacteristic silence, especially Bev, who had always been unusually perceptive. He hated being the reason for their collective concern, and he hated the look Bev gave him, as if she could see through the bullshit that he was thinking, but that he’d not even vocalised.

Richie made an excuse and went to his room to lie down, in the probably forlorn hope that he could catch up on a little sleep and improve his mental functioning. He was so exhausted that he fell sleep quickly, fully clothed on top of the comforter.

His phone woke him at seven, bleeping him out of nightmare where Eddie was just about to be impaled again by It’s talons, and he rolled out of bed, shaking off the residual images. He changed his shirt, and left to meet the Losers at the restaurant.

***

Richie was the last to arrive, and the sight of his five friends sitting around the table in a private room at Jade of the Orient, with half finished drinks and a stack of menus in front of them, was jarringly identical to the last time they’d been here. 

Obviously, Richie kept the similarities coming. He banged the gong, saying, “I hereby convene the 2017 Losers Club reunion. 2016 was a wash-out. Let’s make this one count.”

“Sit down, asshole.” Eddie said. “Do you think everyone in this fucking restaurant wants to hear from you?”

Richie did sit down, flipping Eddie the bird, but secretly relieved that the months-long silence between them had finally been broken. 

Eddie looked good. He looked healthy. He was dressed in an impeccable navy bespoke suit. His hair was slicked back, and the scar on his cheek had faded from an angry red to a silver streak that gave Eddie a touch of badass about him. Richie wondered if Eddie had seen a plastic surgeon, and then scolded himself for being an idiot. It was Eddie. Of course he had. 

Richie caught himself staring at the stretch of Eddie’s suit jacket across his shoulders, and forced his attention away. He ordered a round of shots. He downed his without using his hands, just like he’d done before, and watched as Eddie gingerly picked up the shot glass, frowned at it like it was offensive, and then downed it, grimacing, and washed away the taste with water.

Richie wished he could say that he was fully present at that dinner, but he wasn’t. He only had eyes for Eddie, and was tuned in to Eddie’s voice over all others. 

So he couldn’t hide his shock when Eddie announced, in a conversation he was having with Bill, who was sitting to his left, that he’d filed for divorce. Richie knocked his water glass with a loud clatter, and frantically mopped up the spill with his napkin. Five sets of eyes swivelled towards him. Eddie’s face reddened, and he pointedly turned away from Richie and back to Bill.

The general chatter of the table restarted, and Bev asked Richie something, so couldn’t hear what Eddie said to Bill next. He tried to focus on the conversation he was supposedly part of, but his eyes kept drifting to Eddie. 

He supposed this was what pining looked like. He also supposed this was what obvious looked like. He made a concerted effort not to think about what he’d heard, but resolved to have that conversation with Eddie, as soon as he could.

The waitress cleared their plates, and they ordered a final round of drinks, declining the offer of fortune cookies. When the drinks came, Bill cleared his throat and effortlessly took control of the room. “We need to talk about why we’re here.” He said. 

Through the discussion, it became clear to Richie that Eddie was aware of what had been plaguing Richie all this time. Richie could feel his cheeks flaming with embarrassment, and he was uncharacteristically quiet, while Mike outlined his research and Bill told them about his plan. The group fell into an enthusiastic discussion about the pros and cons of the plan and the gaps in Mike’s research. Eddie was vociferously challenging and called the plan fucking bullshit at several points during the discussion. He’d taken off his jacket, rolled up his shirt sleeves, and, at one point turned to Richie and said, furiously. “Please tell me that you’re not seriously considering this? Do you have any idea about the risks involved? There’s a good chance that, if we go down there again, none of us will come out this time.”

Eddie paused in his rant to hold eye contact with Richie, as Richie said “I’ll do whatever it takes, Eds. I can’t take much more of this. But I don’t want to put anyone else at risk. I’ll do it by myself.”

The group descended into uproar, with a general consensus emerging that Richie a) was an idiot, and b) wouldn’t be able to complete the task by himself. In the end, both Richie and Eddie acquiesced. Richie was desperate, and needed the nightmare to be over, both literally and figuratively. His friends were adamant that they would stand with him, even Eddie, who was now glaring daggers at everyone, but who’d agreed with the general consensus, reluctantly.

Richie excused himself and went to the men’s room, feeling a little emotional. It had been a long time since he’d felt so supported.

He was washing his hands when Eddie entered. 

“Why didn’t you fucking tell me?” Eddie said, slamming the door shut behind him and fixing Richie with a furious glare.

Richie was taken aback by Eddie’s rage but that didn’t stop his mouth running away with him. “When was I supposed to tell you? You’ve not fucking spoken a word to me for four months, Edward. We’ve hardly been braiding each other’s hair and sharing secrets.”

“Fuck you.” Eddie said, jabbing a finger in Richie’s direction. “You know why I’ve been avoiding you.”

“I don’t actually.” Richie said, turning off the tap and shaking the water off his hands. “Because you ran away at Thanksgiving, and you’ve been ignoring me ever since.”

“Ran away?” Eddie yelled. “You are un-fucking-believable, Richie. I can’t actually believe you. Of all the short-sighted, self absorbed, fucking idiocy. You’ve got some nerve after what happened.”

“And what exactly happened, Eddie?” Richie snapped. “Because I was there. And what I saw was you stumbling away from me after a drunken fumble, and then dropping off the face of the fucking earth.”

“Are you serious?” Eddie ran his hands through his hair, messing it up and giving him a slightly rumpled look. “Honestly, Richie. Are you being serious right now?”

“It might have escaped your notice, but I’ve been dealing with some shit these past months.” Richie yelled, on the verge of losing his temper.

“So have I!” Eddie screamed back at him.

Richie had nothing to say in response. Eddie had crossed the room, and now stood directly in front of him in front of the hand basin, breathing rapidly. Eddie shook his head. “I can’t fucking believe this.” He said, turning abruptly and storming out. He slammed the door in Richie’s face.

Back at the table, Eddie was pulling his expensive jacket on with such a furious energy that Richie was surprised the seams didn’t split, and he kept his face turned away from Richie, literally giving him the cold shoulder. He took out his wallet, threw some bills down on the table and left. The others looked between the two of them like children caught between feuding parents.

Richie sat down and put his head in his hands. What the fuck just happened?

***

Richie couldn’t sleep, which he figured was a blessing, because at least he was spared another nightmare. He left his room and made his way downstairs. He helped himself to a tumbler of whiskey and sat at the bar, replaying the argument with Eddie and trying to figure out what the hell he’d been talking about. He was already buzzed from the drinks at dinner, and he was torn between wanting to drink enough to knock himself out, and knowing that would be a bad idea to be hungover in the morning.

***

Next morning, they all reconvened at 8am, far too early for Richie’s liking. Eddie pointedly ignored him, turning away from Richie and refusing to make eye-contact, and Richie ignored Eddie right back. They both ignored the exasperated eye rolling from their friends that was directed towards them. It really was like being in middle school again. At least Mike came with a coffee order from Starbucks, so there was that.

Mike also came with books of Derry’s history, which he cited to support his plan. Richie wondered briefly, as he sipped his caramel latte, if Mike had got them from the library, but didn’t pursue the thought. Thinking about the library, and specifically the last time Richie had been in said library, made him feel nauseated. He still didn’t know what the others had done with Henry’s body, and didn’t want to know.

They took two cars. Richie rode with Ben and Bev and refused to answer Bev’s questions about Eddie. He eventually snapped at her and earned himself an unamused ‘beep beep’ from Ben. 

The Barrens was starting to thaw. The larger drifts were still in evidence, but the snow on the ground was patchy and snowdrops were peeping through the grass, promising a turn of the seasons in a few short weeks. The air was crisp and dry, but the ground was soft, squelching under Richie’s boots as they walked, pushing bare branches aside, silently in single file. Richie thought back to all the times they’d been here as children, walking this same path, loud and brimming with exuberance, able to be authentic and unguarded in the Barrens, out of sight and out of the bullies’ reach. They’d found each other here, played together here, and they’d stood up to Bowers here. There had been magic in this place, when they were young. Now, Richie saw an unkempt, uncared for swathe of land that was too boggy for development, and that was too unregulated for today’s children. There was no mystery or excitement in these Barrens. It was just a neglected space, and if there was any remaining enchantment here, Richie couldn’t feel it.

They came to the clearing where they’d dug the pit for their clubhouse and paused, standing in a loose semi-circle. Richie watched Eddie grimace at the sight of the mud and garbage out of the corner of his eye. Mike took several large wooden bricks out of his backpack and passed them around. Ben shuffled uncomfortably next to Bev, and then moved purposefully to open the hatch. The hinges squealed. 

“You don’t have to do this.” Richie said, looking around the group, his eyes pausing at Eddie, who was staring at the ground. He saw a set of faces set with determination. “We can hit the books and try to find another solution, well, you can Mike, I wouldn’t be much use digging through the Derry archives. Or you could all wait up here while I do the ritual. You can pull me out if it gets too much. Honestly guys, you don’t need to put yourselves at risk. It’s enough that you’re here for me.”

“Shut up, Richie.” Eddie snapped, barging past Ben and disappearing down the hatch. 

“It’s all of us or none of us, Loser.” Bev said, following Eddie down. Ben, Bill and Mike shared a look, and climbed in, leaving Richie alone above ground.

“Oh fuck it.” Richie said to no-one at all, and then he dropped Mike’s backpack into the hole and climbed down, too.

Mike and Bill dug a pit in the centre of the room, circled it with rocks and used the wooden bricks to build a tower inside it, while Richie, Ben, Bev and Eddie cleared the clutter that looked like it had been there since the eighties. The hammock was still there. As he pulled the hammock down, balling it up and tossing it above ground, Richie had a sense memory of Eddie, furiously trying to get him to give up his spot, before crawling into the hammock, head to tail, with him, which was so vivid that he could almost feel Eddie’s socked foot knocking his glasses off his face.

Mike said they needed some wet leaves, and Richie and Eddie both started towards the hatch. Richie got there first, and Eddie fell back, evidently trying to maintain the distance between them. Richie hauled himself back up to the surface. He gathered an armful of foliage, pulling small branches from trees and nearby bushes, and built a pile by the side of the hatch, before passing it down to Bill.

Richie jumped back down into the clubhouse, jarring his knees. They were all too old to be hiding underground, trying to recreate a ritual they’d done before as desperate, daredevil children. Whatever force that had been protecting them back then from both the supernatural and mundane evils that Derry threw at them was surely long gone. The Turtle couldn’t help them. He’d known that last year, and he knew it now. They were on their own. 

Mike used newspaper as kindling and touched a match to it. Richie watched as the fire bloomed, bright in the gloom of the clubhouse, catching across the paper, and stuttering as orange embers before the wood bloomed into flame. Mike pulled the hatch down, leaving it open a few inches. They all sat around the fire, their shoulders touching, Richie had Bev on his left, then Ben, Mike, Eddie and round to Bill on his right. 

“Do you remember the last time we did this?” Mike said.

Richie remembered clearly. He remembered the smoke, his burning eyes and tight chest. He remembered taking shallow breaths, and watching as, one by one, each of the Losers had clawed their way up and into the fresh air, leaving only him and Mike behind. He remembered how his mind had wandered, and that he’d thought he was having a vision of Jeremy Brett as Sherlock Holmes, striding through a real pea-souper. 

“I remember.” Richie said. “We were the last men standing, Mike. Everyone else wimped out.” There was a chorus of ‘beep beeps’ from everyone else. “No shame.” Richie said. “We all did what we had to do. Some of us just did it better.”

“Shut up, Richie.” Bill said, elbowing him in the ribs, and Richie subsided. “Is everyone still on board with this?” Everyone nodded. “Ok, then, here we go.” Bill said, grabbing the foliage Richie had collected, and piling it on top of the fire.

Nothing happened for a few minutes, as they sat in expectant silence. Then the clubhouse started to fill with tendrils of white smoke, twirling up towards the hatch and streaming out into the clean air above, and slowly filling the space above their heads. 

“We don’t need no stinking batches, señor.” Richie muttered to himself. 

Bev snorted and poked him in the ribs, saying, “Don’t make me laugh, Richie. I’ll choke.”

After some minutes more, Richie’s eyes started to water, and his nose was streaming. He pushed his glasses into his hair and wiped his eyes on his sleeve, sniffing. Rubbing his eyes only made them burn harder. He could feel the tears tracking wet channels down his cheeks. He coughed lightly, feeling the smoke start to burn his lungs.

The smoke was starting to fill the clubhouse from the reinforced boards above their head downwards. Richie could hear someone - he thought it was Eddie, but he could have been wrong - start to cough, lightly. He wondered if it was possible to recreate a situation from their childhood, and thought, unflatteringly, that they were too old, too touched by their ordinary, grown up lives to access the magic that they’d taken for granted as children. He started picturing them all succumbing to the smoke, falling unconscious and suffocating down here. 

“What if we can’t take it this time?” Richie said. “What if we all need to bail?”

“Then we’ll find another way, Richie.” Bill said, his voice sounding raspy. 

“But shouldn’t one of us stay up top, in case things go wrong?” Richie said.

“We’re weaker because Stan’s not here.” Mike said. “It has to be all of us.” 

“But...” Richie said.

“For fuck’s sake Richie, shut up.” Eddie snapped, and started coughing. Richie could see him across the flames, doubled up, and struggling. He could hear the rasp of Eddie’s breathing. Eddie really shouldn’t be down here. Even if his asthma was psychosomatic, he had been through a traumatic chest injury not so long ago. Richie was no doctor, but he thought that his injury must have compromised his lung capacity.

“Excuse me for giving a shit about all of you.” Richie snapped back. 

Bev laid her hand on Richie’s knee and said quietly, “Not now, Richie.”

The childish part of Richie wanted to say that Eddie had started it, but instead he stayed silent, stewing in his anxiety, and feeling the heat from the fire overshadowing the flush on his cheeks. Eddie could barely stand to be around him, that much was obvious to Richie, and Richie was starting to believe that they might not even find their way back to friendship. It left him feeling cold inside, even as his skin was prickling with the heat.

The clubhouse was now filled with harsh white smoke. Richie started taking rapid, shallow breaths, in through his nose and out through his mouth, which made him feel light headed. He tried to calm himself, telling himself that he could sort out his inconvenient feelings for Eddie later, and focussing on his breath, in and out. He’d learnt the breathing technique in therapy. 

Mike started coughing, doubling over and gasping. Richie watched him struggle to get it under control, and watched until his cough was a constant bark, until he was clearly fighting to take a breath. Mike stood up, croaking out a sorry as he stumbled out of the circle and pulled himself up through the hatch.

The air cleared, for a few minutes, until the smoke again filled the clubhouse, and Richie tried to focus on his breathing, feeling his light-headedness morph into a woozy, dizzy sensation. He started feeling that the clubhouse was bigger, perhaps doubled in size.

“Is it working?” Ben said, and his voice sounded further away than one person removed from Richie, but when Richie looked, he could see Ben right there, next to Bev, no more than an arms-length away.

“I think it was working.” Bill said. “I think the room got bigger for a minute.” The group mumbled their assent, and Richie closed his eyes, thinking that it would help him focus on his breathing.

Ben was the next person to succumb to the smoke, clearing the air again for a moment as he pushed his way up and out, followed a few minutes later by Bev.

Richie lost track of time after that. He concentrated on the rhythm of his breath, in and out, and kept his eyes closed. He could hear the rasp of Bill and Eddie’s breathing, their occasional coughing fits and the crackle of the fire. The sounds were sometimes faint, like there was some distance between them, and then louder, closer. He could taste the wood smoke.

Richie listened as a coughing fit overtook one of the others. He cracked open one eye, expecting to see Eddie doubled over and struggling, but it was Bill. Richie watched as Bill tried to suppress his cough and get control of his breathing, but ultimately failed. 

“Sorry guys.” He said, as he stood, leaving Richie and Eddie alone in the smoke. 

It took time for the smoke to thicken again.

“Are you OK?” Richie said, wondering if the way his voice echoed was his imagination.

“I’m fine.” Eddie said, unmistakably further away than the four feet that had been separating them. “You?”

“I’m good.” Richie said. “It’s happening. The room is bigger.” He opened his eyes, which started watering immediately. It seemed like Eddie was further away. “Take my hand.” 

“I don’t want to.” Eddie said.

“Get over yourself, Eds.” Richie snapped, stretching his arm towards Eddie. “Take my goddamn hand. I’ve done this before, remember?”

Eddie scooted closer and took Richie’s hand. “What’s happening?” Eddie said.

“The smoke will start clearing soon.” Richie said. “If it happens like before. Can you hold on for a while longer? Go if you need to. I can do this by myself.”

“I’m not leaving.” Eddie said, Richie squeezed his hand. “I’m still mad at you. Don’t think this changes anything.”

“And I still don’t know what you’re mad about.” Richie said. 

Eddie started to reply, but was caught in a coughing fit. By the time he’d got himself under control, the smoke was definitely thinning, and the walls of the clubhouse were no longer within touching distance. 

“We’re not in Kansas anymore, Eddie.” Richie said, taking a deep breath of air that was fresher, less smoky than before, but at the same time, knowing with certainty that he and Eddie were somehow still in the smoke hole,

“Fuck.” Eddie said, looking around. The clubhouse was now cavernous, with a ceiling so far above them that it disappeared into the darkness, and walls at least fifty feet away. The fire was no longer the only light source. Richie could see the pale blue of Eddie’s polo shirt, and the red of his bloodshot eyes. The light was coming from an opening.

“We should go.” Richie said, standing, and pulling Eddie up with him. 

The sun was high in the sky, shining a duller orange colour than normal. They found themselves emerging into a dense forest, and emerged from the trees to see a vast, blackened crater, gouged out of the earth. 

“It’s after It arrived.” Richie said. “When I did this with Mike, we saw the meteor, or whatever it was, crash.” Richie gestured at the crater. “It was how It got here from outside.”

“Outside what?” Eddie said, staring around them.

“The universe.” Richie said, thinking about the Deadlights for the first time since that day, in something other than an abstract sense. He remembered flying through darkness towards an impossible barrier, and remembered that he knew, somehow, that the barrier was the edge of everything. He remembered speeding past the Turtle, who had died. “It came from outside the universe.”

“Fuck.” Eddie said.

“Indeed, Edward, indeed.” Richie said, in his British voice.

“Do you have any idea how annoying you are?” Eddie said. 

“As a matter of fact, I do.” Richie said. “It’s what you love me about me.”

Eddie spluttered, blushed, and turned away. Richie, finally got control of his mouth and shut it, pushing his way through the trees, towards the crater. He could hear Eddie following him close behind, wheezing slightly.

Richie reached the edge of the crater, which had carved a vast chunk out of the valley, and as he looked down, he had another flash of the Deadlights. He staggered back from the edge with the force of the memory, catching himself on the trunk of an enormous tree.

Up until now, all he had remembered about the Deadlights was bright light and a flying sensation, confusion, terror, chaos. He had no idea how long he’d been there, suspended in unreality. The others had told him it had been minutes, at most. 

Now, he remembered It in the Deadlights, screeching and taunting him. He remembered seeing Eddie die on the floor of the sewer, in the hospital, in a car crash, of flu. Somehow he had seen all of Eddie’s deaths, dozens of them, all at the same time.

He remembered seeing all of them die. Stan in a bathtub filled with blood; Mike, murdered by a man who looked like Henry Bowers; Bev being pushed violently by her husband and hitting her head on a marble floor, blood spreading in a circle around her body; Ben of a heart attack; Bill in a car accident. He saw himself die, alone in his apartment, choking on his own drunken vomit. 

All of them too young. All of them too soon.

He had been in the Deadlights for a few minutes, and an eternity. 

He had seen Stan alive, living his life with Patty, doing puzzles and going to the synagogue, a junior partner in an Atlanta accountancy firm. He had seen Mike in the library in Derry, never free of the burden of keeping watch. Bev getting her divorce and making a living as a seamstress. Bill writing for the internet; and Ben a construction foreman. He’d seen Eddie, living with Myra and working in retail banking. He’d seen himself as a high school teacher, his students his only audience. 

All of them growing old, living lives that were ordinary, unremarkable and untouched by magic.

He had been outside of time, outside of space. He’d seen those lives, and had also lived them. He’d died in them, too, dozens of times in dozens of different ways.

It was too much for his mind to take. It was too much to remember. Richie fell to his knees, clutching his head and knocking his glasses to the ground. He felt his mind coming apart, breaking with the tsunami of impossible memories.

He could feel the foliage under his hands, damp from recent rainfall and he could smell the earth beneath. He tried to focus outside of himself, on the physical world, if this vision or whatever it was could be called a physical world, but the pain was unrelenting. Tears prickled his eyes.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Richie, what’s happening?” Eddie’s voice sounded distant, shrill, panicked, but his hands were on Richie’s shoulders, so he must be closer than Richie’s ears indicated. Richie couldn’t speak. He was still being assaulted by memories from the Deadlights, more images were flashing through his mind, jumbled and agonising.

“Oh my God.” Eddie said. “You’re bleeding, Richie. Jesus fuck, you’re bleeding from your fucking eyes.”

Richie forced himself to turn, grabbing Eddie’s hands. He knew he couldn’t take it much longer and he had to hope that remembering the Deadlights would be enough to break the cycle of being pulled back into them in every hallucination and every nightmare. “We need to go back.” He whispered. Eddie nodded, bracing himself so Richie could haul himself up, using Eddie for support. Richie kept his eyes shut, trusting that the compass in Eddie’s head wouldn’t let them down, and leaned on him for support. He wiped the blood and tears from his face, his head pounding, feeling like his brain was splitting, breaking apart.

They crashed through the undergrowth, back into the cave. Richie found the warm fire-lit darkness a small comfort.

“How do we get back?” Eddie said, the panic clear in his voice. “Richie, how the fuck do we get back?”

“The smoke.” Richie said. “We need to disappear into the smoke.”

“Right.” Eddie said. “We’ll need more leaves.” He left Richie sitting on the floor of the cave, which didn’t exist, to gather leaves and green wood, which also didn’t exist. If Richie could only convince himself that none of this was real, then the pain wouldn’t be real. He pressed his head to his knees, realising that the memory-visions had faded, leaving Richie in agony.

Eddie came back quickly. Richie could hear him tending to the fire, and could smell the smoke plume shortly after. Eddie put his arm around Richie’s shoulder, holding him tightly.

They both began coughing at the same time, and Richie had an abstract thought that it was near-impossible for the cave they’d entered to fill with smoke so quickly, before his coughing, combined with his headache, caused his eyes to fill with tears. 

Eddie let go of Richie, doubling over next to him, struggling to take a breath, and Richie tried to reach out to keep hold of Eddie, but Eddie had disappeared into the smoke and Richie’s hand couldn’t find him. 

“Eddie?” Richie managed to croak out between coughing fits. No-one answered. 

It felt like Richie’s lungs were so filled with smoke that he was barely getting any oxygen, leaving no energy for panic. Black spots danced in his vision, and he could feel himself slipping in and out of consciousness. He heard a crashing sound, that seemed to be coming from far away, then arms were grabbing him, pulling him up and out into the fresh air of the Barrens.


	5. I Still Hate This Town

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richie became aware of his surroundings slowly. He could hear shouting, but couldn’t make out individual voices or the words, until Eddie’s voice cut through the rest, saying something about getting Richie to a hospital. He opened his eyes and the world was blurry and out of focus. His glasses were missing.

Richie became aware of his surroundings slowly. He could hear shouting, but couldn’t make out individual voices or the words, until Eddie’s voice cut through the rest, saying something about getting Richie to a hospital. He opened his eyes and the world was blurry and out of focus. His glasses were missing.

“He’s waking up.” Ben said.

“Thanks for stating the obvious.” Eddie snapped. Richie could make out a shape, indistinct but unmistakably Eddie, floating above him. “Hey Richie.” He said. “Are you OK?” Richie tried to nod, but it only made him dizzy.

“I still say he needs a hospital.” Eddie said.

There was a range of voices raised in opposition, and Eddie stood and argued along with them. Richie tried to push himself up, getting about halfway to sitting upright, before someone pushed him back down.

He took an inventory of himself. His chest hurt from coughing, his eyes felt puffy and sore and his throat was tight. But his head was mercifully free of pain. He felt woozy, but his head was clearing with every breath of clean air. He started to feel the damp, cold ground seeping through his clothes, and his discomfort overcame his lightheadedness. “Hey!” He said, but his voice was scratchy and weak, so he said it again, and the voices around him stilled. “Help me up.”

Ben grabbed Richie by the elbow and hauled him up. Richie swayed on his feet, and saw black spots dance across his vision, shivering with the cold. Ben and Mike each hauled one of Richie’s arms over their shoulders, supporting him. 

“I would love to debate whatever you’re all arguing about some more.” Richie said. “But I’m freezing and I can’t see any of you, so if we could take this somewhere warmer, and find my glasses, that would be great.”

They searched the clubhouse, but Richie’s glasses could not be found. Eventually they drove back to the Derry Townhouse, Richie having strongly vetoed the argument that he needed to go to the hospital. He’d spent more than enough time there, and never wanted to go back.

***

Richie had a shower to banish the chill that had settled into his bones and wash the blood from his face, found his spare glasses, and joined the others in the bar. Ben handed him a glass and poured him a generous shot of whiskey. Richie drank it slowly as he told them what he’d seen, with Eddie chipping in his observations occasionally, and Mike throwing out insights from his studies of indigenous customs, to explain how the ritual had worked. 

“So you actually remembered being in the Deadlights?” Bev said.

“I think so.” Richie said. “It’s hard to explain, it’s getting jumbled, but it was like being everywhere, living all of the possibilities of all of our lives at the same moment.”

“No wonder your head felt like it was exploding.” Ben said, and Richie nodded, although he’d already forgotten the intensity of the pain. 

“What now?” Ben said. 

“Now, we go for lunch.” Richie said. “And then pack up at get out of Dodge. I still hate this fucking town.”

***

Richie said goodbye to the Losers at the diner, and watched them drive out of town separately, with a promise to meet up soon. He couldn’t book a flight out of Boston until the next day, so he spent the night in his hotel room. 

For the first time in months, he slept without dreaming. 

***

The next morning, Richie was awoken by someone banging on his door. He woke slowly, groggily reaching for his glasses, and hauling himself out of bed. 

Eddie was standing on the other side of the door, his fist raised to continue his incessant knocking.

“Jesus, Eddie, what time is it?” Richie said, his internal clock was telling him it was early morning. “Do you have any idea how long it’s been since I had a full night’s sleep?”

“Shut up and let me in.” Eddie said, and Richie stood back, opening the door fully with a flourish that was wholly sarcastic. Eddie pushed his way inside, rolled his eyes at the state of Richie’s room, and stood awkwardly in the centre.

“What are you doing here?” Richie said, debating whether or not to put on some pants. He decided not to. If Eddie wanted to wake him up at stupid o’clock in the morning, then he could put up with seeing Richie in his boxers and a t-shirt. Eddie was wearing the same clothes he’d been wearing yesterday, and looked like he’d not slept. “Did you drive back to New York and then come straight back?” Richie said, realising, as the words left his mouth, that this was probably exactly what happened.

“That’s not the point.” Eddie said. “We need to talk.”

Richie sat on his rumpled bed, suppressing the urge to refer to the last time he and Eddie had talked, as Eddie looked unsteady (ha, Richie thought, “unsteady Eddie”, and then mentally beeped himself). Richie wanted to remind Eddie that it had been Eddie who’d started the fight in the men’s room at Jade of the Orient, and he wanted to remind him that it had also been Eddie who’d kissed him at Thanksgiving. But Eddie was obviously not in the mood for Richie’s usual provocation, and they clearly did have some things to talk about, so Richie gestured for him to continue. 

“I’m sorry.” Eddie said. 

Richie wasn’t expecting that. “For what?” He said.

“For fuck’s sake Richie!” Eddie exploded into irritation. “Can you shut up for one fucking minute? I’m trying to apologise.”

Richie mimed locking his lips and raised an eyebrow in Eddie’s direction. 

Eddie huffed, visibly tried to calm himself, and continued. “I’m sorry about what happened at Thanksgiving.” 

Richie’s heart sank. So that’s what this was about. Of course Eddie regretted what had happened, that should have been clear to Richie from the start and shouldn’t come as a surprise to him now. He remained silent, miraculously able to keep his mouth in check. He owed Eddie the chance to get his apology out, to salvage their friendship from of the flames of Richie’s evidently unrequited feelings. 

“You were right.” Eddie continued. “I was drunk.”

They’d both been drunk, Richie thought, but he didn’t speak up. If he could have found his voice he might have repeated what he’d said that night. That he couldn’t stand to be Eddie’s drunken mistake. Or his guilty secret.

“And I shouldn’t have put you in the middle of my marital problems.” Eddie said. “Things had been wrong for years, terrible even. I just didn’t have any motivation to deal with it. I went to work every day, for as many hours as possible, I avoided going home. I was miserable, but I thought that was all my life could be, you know?” 

Richie nodded, both remembering fondly the many times when Eddie had gone off on a similar rapid, manic rant when they were kids, and fully understanding how a life could appear successful on the surface, but be thoroughly empty underneath. 

“Then Mike called.” Eddie said. “And everything changed.”

“I get it.” Richie said.

Eddie huffed, looking irritated at the interruption. “I don’t think you do get it, Richie.” He said. “Your life....you’re successful, you’re famous, you’ve got your life together.” 

“It’s not how it is for me Eddie.” Richie said. “My life isn’t like that.”

He could see Eddie consider this for a second, then dismiss it, clearly unable to reconcile the mess that Richie was in reality with his public persona. “What I’m trying to say is that my life was miserable, but I didn’t realise how miserable until Mike called, which I know sounds insane in the circumstances. What kind of life is improved by remembering a literal child-killing monster? Anyway, I always thought I needed someone to look after me. Like my mom did. And Myra did take care of me, she really did. But not in a healthy way. I needed to remember standing up to my mom, like I did that summer, to realise that I even could stand up for myself.” All of this was rattled off at a frantic pace, with Eddie punctuating his points with his hands. “So I stood up for myself.” He said. “I asked Myra for a divorce.” He paused, his chest rising and falling rapidly. 

Richie watched Eddie, dressed in yesterday’s clothes, rambling about his miserable life, and unhappy marriage, while Richie sat in his boxers on the bed in a room in the Derry Town House, and he thought about the absurdity of the situation, and briefly about his own unsuccessful romantic life. He would have paid good money to be alone in a hotel room with Eddie back in high school. 

“What I’m trying to say, is that I shouldn’t have kissed you while I was still working up to asking Myra for a divorce. It wasn’t fair. On Myra or on you.” Eddie said. And I wouldn’t have done it if I’d been sober.”

Ouch, Richie thought, that hurt. Eddie must have seen the hurt reflected on Richie’s face, because he stopped talking and just looked at him. Richie tried to school his expression into neutrality, and leaned back on his elbows. If he couldn’t get his face under control, he’d make his posture as relaxed as possible. Eddie’s eyes seemed to track Richie’s movements, before flicking back up to his eyes.

“That came out wrong.” Eddie said, speaking carefully. He pushed his hands through his hair, upsetting the carefully gelled strands. “Why can’t I ever say what I actually mean? What is wrong with me?” He said furiously, before taking a breath, and saying, even more carefully as if his words were shards of glass. “I would have kissed you anyway. Drunk or not. I wanted to.”

“What?” Was all Richie could manage.

“I wanted to. Kiss you.” Eddie said. “But then you pushed me away, and I realised that you didn’t want to kiss me back, and - I know I behaved badly, Richie, and I’m so sorry - I was hurt, and embarrassed, and it’s not an excuse, but there’s been so much going on this year.” Eddie ran out of steam, and stood in the centre of Richie’s hotel room, red-faced with his eyes on the carpet.

“Eddie,” Richie said, quietly, making a split second decision to be honest with Eddie, even as his brain was catching up with itself. To be fair, Richie was known for rash and ill-considered decisions. They usually blew up in his face. He hoped this one would buck the trend. “Do you remember what I said after we kissed?”

Eddie looked surprised at Richie’s interjection. “It’s all a bit hazy.” He said.

Richie pushed himself up, and sat straight. “I said I didn’t want to be your dirty secret, or your drunken mistake.”

“Did you?” Eddie said.

“Yes.” Richie said. “And I meant it. That’s why I pushed you away.”

Eddie made a small surprised “oh” sound, and then looked like he was going to start apologising again.

Richie interrupted him before he could get started. “Look, Eddie, I’m not very good at talking about feelings - especially for someone who makes a living out of talking about uncomfortable subjects. But I need to say this, so will you please sit down and let me speak.”

Eddie sat on the corner of Richie’s bed, as far from Richie as possible, looking more uncomfortable than before.

“For the last nine months, I’ve been seeing you die every time I slept.” Richie said. “And it never got easy. I felt broken after every nightmare. I don’t know how I got through it. I’m not really through it, last night was literally the first time I’ve slept properly in nine months. I’m still probably technically crazy. I’ve been hallucinating various traumatic events. I’ve been a disaster.” 

Richie paused, needing a moment to get his thoughts in order. There was a lot he wanted to confess to Eddie, and he’d been brought up to believe that confession was good for the soul. But he knew he could be too much at times. Too loud. Too insecure. Too unstable, if the truth be told. Anyone faced with Richie’s whole, unfiltered self might find it off-putting, overwhelming. Richie’s romantic track record backed up this hypothesis. He knew what was at stake. His friendship with Eddie. 

And he wasn’t in the best headspace to be making big decisions. 

He probably shouldn’t say anything.

He was going to say something.

God, it had been so long since he’d been in a situation like this. He’d been tongue tied and hopeless in front of Eddie before, of course, several times when he was a teenager. He’d never had the courage to speak before. He’d been closeted and afraid, back then. And it turned out, Eddie had been too.

“I pushed you away for the right reasons.” Richie said, turning to face Eddie directly. “But I don’t think those reasons apply right now.”

Eddie flicked a look at him, and then looked away. “I’m not drunk.” He said. 

“No you’re not.” Richie said. “And neither am I.”

“But I am still married, legally.” Eddie said. “I’ve filed for divorce, but it hasn’t come through yet.” Eddie looked like he was ramping up to go on another rapid-fire rant.

“For god’s sake Eddie, shut up and get over here.”

Eddie’s mouth snapped shut, and he looked Richie in the eye, for a beat or two. Then he moved, practically throwing himself into Richie, knocking him back on to the headboard, and rattling it against the wall. He straddled Richie’s lap and wrapped his arms around his shoulders. 

“Is this OK?” Eddie said, looking down at Richie.

Richie chose not to reply, but pulled Eddie down for into a kiss. The first touch of their lips was light, with little pressure, barely touching. It was slow, sweet, and it made Richie’s heart pound in his ears. Richie could kiss Eddie like this all day.

Then Eddie shifted in Richie’s lap, grabbing a fistful of his hair, pulling his head back and kissing his way up Richie’s neck, behind his ear. “I’ve waited so long for this.” Eddie whispered into Richie’s ear, and oh god the sensation of Eddie’s breath on skin that was damp from his lips went straight to Richie’s dick. 

Eddie was wearing a light, watery cologne, and he tasted of coffee. Richie licked his way past the seam of Eddie’s lips, letting him use his hand in Richie’s hair to manoeuvre him into position. 

Richie slid both hands up Eddie’s thighs and back down, rolling his hips up, and kissing Eddie again, desperate and dirty, while unbuttoning his shirt, and tossing it aside. Eddie’s chest was marred by scarring from his injury, a deep red indent in his otherwise clear, lightly tanned, skin. Richie’s fingers hovered over the scar. “Can I touch it?” He said. Eddie nodded, and Richie traced the edge of the scar carefully, before pressing a kiss to the centre. Richie could feel Eddie’s heart beating through his chest, while Eddie stayed still under his hands. Proof that Eddie was alive, and proof that his nightmares were a sham, concocted by the Deadlights, and banished by his memory of them, hopefully permanently.

“Does it hurt?” Richie whispered.

“No.” Eddie said. “It’s numb. Nerve damage.” Eddie kissed him lightly, which was an effective way of shutting Richie up. He kept one hand in Richie’s hair, and used the other to tug Richie’s t-shirt off. Eddie lifted his weight up and rolled over, pulling Richie on top of him. 

Richie was distracted by Eddie’s well-defined abs, trailing his fingers down the ridges. “When did you get so hot?” He said.

“Shut up.” Eddie replied. “I work out.”

Richie kissed his way from Eddie’s neck, down his chest and over his stomach, following the line of dark hair dusted across Eddie’s chest and stomach, desperate to touch every part of him. He unbuckled his belt, sliding it out of the loops before throwing it off the bed with a jangle. Eddie lifted his hips, as Richie tugged Eddie’s pants down and off. 

“Can I fuck you?” Eddie said, brushing his hand brazenly over the front of Richie’s boxers, where his erection was much in evidence, and knocking the remaining sense out of Richie’s head.

“Oh god, yes.” Richie said. “Please.”

Eddie rolled them again, evidently stronger than he looked - Richie was so into being manhandled - and settled on Richie’s thighs. It was the work of a matter of a few awkward seconds to get Eddie out of his boxers, and oh boy, Eddie’s cock was magnificent. Richie wrapped his hand around it, and stroked slowly, watching Eddie shudder above him.

Richie could barely catch his breath. He felt overwhelmed with the sight of Eddie naked above him, with the sensation of his hand wrapped around Eddie’s cock, and the look on Eddie’s face. His own cock was hard, tenting his boxers, and Richie had to fight the urge to take control and set a faster pace. He thought Eddie needed this.

Richie pushed his own shorts down, and Eddie rose up to drag them off, and rocked down, dragging his balls over Richie’s erection slowly, using his weight to pin Richie’s shoulders to the bed. 

They kissed again, fever-hot and breathless, before Eddie broke off and pulled back. “Do you have condoms?”

“In the side pocket of my bag.” Richie said. Eddie scrambled off the bed, and returned a few seconds later with a foil packet and a small bottle of lube. “What?” Richie said, clocking Eddie’s expression. “I’m an ex Boy Scout. I’m always prepared.”

“You were never a Boy Scout.” Eddie said. “You went once and got thrown out.” He settled between Richie’s legs, and kissed the inside of his knee.

Richie started to argue the point (even though Eddie was absolutely right about his unsuccessful trial as a Boy Scout), until Eddie’s lips closed around the tip of his cock, knocking the argument right out of him. Richie’s head fell back onto the pillows, and an undignified noise escaped him as Eddie’s lubed finger circled his ass and slipped inside. 

Richie didn’t know whether to press down onto Eddie’s fingers or up into his mouth, and his hips twitched helplessly, until Eddie found his prostate, nearly causing Richie to jack-knife off the bed. “Oh Jesus Christ, Eddie.” Eddie made eye contact with Richie, without pausing, and flicked his tongue under the head of Richie’s cock. “Don’t stop. For god’s sake, don’t stop.”

Eddie continued until Richie was on the verge of orgasm, then he licked a long stripe up Richie’s cock, pulled his fingers free, and fumbled the condom out of its wrapper. Richie watched him slip it on, and stroke lube over his cock. Then he was lining the head of his cock against Richie’s ass and pressing in.

He paused when he bottomed out, pressing his forehead to Richie’s, seeming to need a moment to catch his breath. “You feel so good.” He said. 

“Please move, Eddie.” Richie said, breathlessly, one hand grabbing Eddie’s ass, and the other bracing himself against the headboard. “I need, oh god, I need you to fuck me.”

“So impatient.” Eddie said, starting to move his hips slowly, before picking up the pace. He rolled his hips, nailing Richie’s prostate repeatedly. Richie could feel his orgasm building, and was powerless to stop the punched out, high pitched and embarrassing noises he was making. He wrapped a hand around his own cock, stroking in time with Eddie’s thrusts. His legs were trembling and his balls was drawn up tight. Richie was hurtling towards the edge, free falling into an orgasm that shook him to his core. When it hit, the world whited out for a few seconds, and Richie was only aware of the tension snapping out of every one of his muscles, and a roaring white noise in his head, as he melted onto the bed.

He slowed his hand, feeling the semen cooling on his chest, while watching Eddie move above him. Eddie’s thrusts became erratic, and his head tipped back as he came. Richie watched the cords stand out on Eddie’s neck, saw his Adam’s apple move in his throat, and felt Eddie pulsing inside him as he groaned out Richie’s name.

Eddie collapsed on top of him, pressing his face into Richie’s chest as he pulled out. He stayed like that for a few seconds before peeling himself up to dispose of the condom. Richie straightened his glasses, pulled his t-shirt from the floor and wiped up the mess on his chest with it. Eddie made a face, but didn’t call him on it. Instead, he laid down next to Richie, hooking a leg over Richie’s thighs.

“That was something.” Eddie said.

“It was.” Richie said, too scrambled to come up with anything witty. “We need to do that again. A lot.”

Eddie kissed him lightly, and to Richie it felt like a promise that there would be other times for them. 

“Come to LA with me.” Richie said, propping himself up on his elbow, wishing he had a cigarette, but knowing perfectly well that Eddie would be beyond mad if he lit up.

Eddie looked up at him, his hair flattened on one side and crazy on the other. And this was quite possibly Richie’s new favourite view. Eddie with messed up hair, lying in bed, still flushed from his orgasm.

“I’ll cancel my flight. Keep the rental car.” Richie said. “We can drive to LA, spend some time together. Stay in roadside motels. We always talked about going on a road trip. It’ll be fun.” 

“Back in the nineties.” Eddie said. “When we both thought we’d be going to UCLA together.”

“So it didn’t work out for us back then. Maybe it will now.” Richie said. “As long as this isn’t another hallucination.”

“This isn’t a hallucination.” Eddie said.

“That’s what you’d say if you were a hallucination.”

“I’m not a hallucination, Richie.” Eddie kissed him to emphasise his point. “This is real.” He kissed him again, slipping his hands under the sheets and squeezing Richie’s ass. 

“What do you say, Eds?” Richie said, feeling a little breathless. 

“I guess I could take some vacation from work. And don’t call me Eds.” 

“Is that a yes?”

Eddie rolled his eyes. “It’s a yes, Richie. But I have some conditions.”

“Of course you do.” Richie said, pulling Eddie into another kiss. 

He had a feeling that he’d agree to Eddie’s conditions, whatever they were. 

Richie didn’t know what would happen after their road trip. Whether they could make something work between them, if they could mesh their lives together while living on opposite sides of the country, if Richie could actually make a relationship last. But he was grateful to have a second chance, even if the chance was twenty eight years late.


End file.
